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One of the more noxious side effects of the events of my life is the following scenario.

Let's say I say I'm sick, or getting sick, or not feeling well. Inevitably, the Dorf will mention that he feels ill, or did, or will, etc. Now, I'm fairly sure that most people shrug this off, since other people do get sick. I don't. I get ANGRY, like I'm not allowed to be sick by myself, or be taken care of, or left to just be me.

Only now have a begun to realize why I do this. As I child, I had to subjugate my wishes, my problems, my desires, to my mother. My mother had CANCER. You don't fuck with cancer. And what's a wussy thing like the flu compared to CANCER? So I learned to never whine, never ask for special treatment, never complain. My problems can't possibly be anywhere near hers.

So now, when it happens, when someone tries to relate to me, even when my therapist discloses her own history of abuse, all I can think of is how ANGRY I am that someone dares to hold their experience up for me to pity, to feel bad for. I almost get offended.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

Look, I know it's likely a normal outcropping of what happened to me. But it's so TACKY! And not in a polyester kind of way. It's immature and rude. But then, it can also be argued that my emotional growth remains at 11 years of age, and hasn't moved. I know that people are just trying to relate, but dammit, I've spent years with people trying to relate, and no one just listening or taking care of me.

The Dorf mentioned something last night about me being "emotionally cold, distant and unavailable".

It's true. Sometimes I tell him to read this blog, because it's so much easier for me to be "me" in writing. Figures that we fell in love through letters huh? But I feel terrible, because not only is he the person who takes the brunt of the above, but he also has to deal with the way I am, lost in thought, saying little most of the time. Opening up, when all I've known is being fucked over, is likely the hardest thing I've ever done. I'd rather give birth.

Sometimes lately, I feel like I am giving birth, a birth to a new me, or to the me that has been buried underneath piles and piles of shit, of horror and sadness, of unending sorrow. I feel like I'm reaching back and trying to find the girlchild who loved the world, who had so much to give, and so few people to give it to. Reaching back to a tiny baby whose mother couldn't keep her in the first place.

I often wonder what the scars really are from adoption, and what impact that has in my life as well. I can be rational, but at the end of the day, I have two mothers, one who couldn't/didn't want me, and one who couldn't stay. Did that start me on a path to being guarded and wary, or did the events which happened to be do that?

Sometimes, I wonder about my brain...

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