I have been talking to a really good friend a lot lately about the pains of my past. He is my roommate. I have known him for 10 years. And he is the one person I feel safe talking to about anything. His name is Cody.
We were talking last night. And once again I went into talking about the adoptions of Christopher and Jeremy. And the pain and resentment I hold against John (my ex) for the part he played in it. Cody told me that I should talk to John and tell him everything that I feel about him. So I told John that I wanted to talk to him, and he is supposed to be coming over tonight after I get off work so I can do that. But for now, I will tell you all what part he played and how much I hate him for him.
I told you that I attempted suicide when CPS wouldn't leave me alone. And that's how they got both of my children. What I didn't tell you what that while I was sitting in a mental hospital, I got a phone call every evening before we went to bed. I used that phone call every night to call my husband. The one person that is supposed to stand by my side and have empathy for me. And love me. And know me. He should have known that my children were my world. That the thought of losing my children was what drove me to attempt suicide in the first place. During one of those phone calls he told me that he had sent his children to live with their maternal grandparents. And that he thought we would be better without any kids at all. That we should just give them all up. And just be us.
When I came home I continued to fight for my children. I let him make the decision to leave his children where they were. 6 months later I was drugged into giving up my fight. When I came off the drugs and realized what I had done, I couldn't function. So I told John that if he didn't bring his kids back that I had no reason to stay. That I was meant to be a mama. I told him then that I hated him for what he had done. But that I just wanted his kids back because no one could take them from me. He went and got them. I went back to being a mama. A couple of weeks later, I woke up and was so depressed that I couldn't get out of bed. I stayed in bed and cried all day. I didn't get up and feed the kids or anything. When John came home he came in and asked me what was wrong. I told him that I didn't know if I could do this. If I could raise his children when I wasn't even raising my own. He essentially told me to snap out of it. That the pictures and talking about them were too painful. So he put all of the pictures up. And did away with any personal effects that belonged to my boys. And his children and I were forbidden to talk about them. They no longer existed. There was no proof that there was ever 2 babies living in that house. The only time he conceded was on their birthdays when I was allowed to bake them a cake.
I left John several times over the course of our marriage. He always forced me to come back. By withholding his children from me. I wasn't allowed to see them or speak to them. And they were my life. They were my children. And I couldn't lose any more. So I would come back. And I would be a stay at home mom. I would hold the children when they cried for their mom. And at night when I was talking to John I would say, "I wonder if Christopher or Jeremy remember me? I wonder if they cry for me? And I wonder if they do, if their new moms hold them and comfort them?" His response was always, "Don't worry about them. They're fine. They were little enough to forget you. So don't talk about it, because all it does is make you said and you have 3 kids in there to raise." So I would bottle it up. And I would let it go. And I did that until his youngest child was an adult. That way the kids could make the decision of whether to see me or not.
I hate John for giving my babies away. I hate him for telling me to forget them. I hate him for telling me we were better off without children. I hate him for expecting me to raise his children and not my own. I hate him for withholding those children from me when I did try to leave him. I hate him for beating my self worth down so far that it has taken me 16 years to work up the courage to confront him.
I hate that I am mad at his children. And I didn't even realize that until just now. But I am. They don't really talk to me. They don't come to see me. And at times they are plainly disrespectful to me. I don't know if they realize what I sacrificed to be there for them. But since they are all in their mid 20's now, you would think they did. And I don't know if that is a conversation I should have with them.
I need to find a way to heal from this anger. And do it without hurting my children even more by telling them the truth.