The Best Time I Didn't Friend My Mother on Facebook
Recently, my former adoptive mother tried to friend me on Facebook. I hadn’t spoken to her since I was a kid.
When my brother and I were taken out of our adoptive home of six years, I at 15 and he at 17, we were placed back into state custody. We were foster kids again, which hey, was fine because in the past we’d had some pretty good foster times with some pretty nice foster folk. We had to testify in court against our adoptive parents, though.
Among the most memorable things they had done:
1. Told my brother he wasn’t allowed to eat for three days, and that they’d be doing surprise checks at the school cafeteria.
2. Hit us with creative things (well maybe those things were not inherently creative, just creative as child-hitting tools?) such as blow-dryers.
3. Dug food out of the garbage disposal, because we had not been given permission to clear our plates, replaced the food on said plates, and made us eat it.
It wasn’t all bad, however. The man and woman who’d adopted us valued education and travel and hard work and sports. I got to hug Clyde Drexler once, at a Blazers Camp they’d sent me to when I was 10.
Our adoptive father was a child abuser, but he was also a man who loved to fish, and woke us early to take us along. I loved being in the woods while the sun was rising, loved surprising him sometimes when I caught a fish, reeled it in patiently, gently enough to avoid breaking the line. In the truck on the way to and from, he’d play Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams” on repeat, which, if you think about it, may have been more damaging to our young minds than the physical abuse, but he sang it like an anthem, and sometimes I swear I saw his eyes tearing up while he did. I don’t really know what his deal was.
One thing I know and am glad to know, after living with my adoptive parents, is that nothing is ever black and white. This may seem obvious, but you’d be surprised at how many people think in black and white when confrontation arises. It’s easier, I guess.
Our adoptive mother was a woman who would take me shopping for the best of the best running shoes, and then stop off at McDonald’s to surprise my brother with a prank-worthy load of cheeseburgers, giggling all the way home in anticipation of the look on his face.
Yet, this was the same woman who tore through our bedrooms like a cyclone if even one small object was out of its place. After all, we were told to clean, and if we needed to see every one of our belongings ripped out of closets and drawers and tossed into a massive pile in the center of our rooms, if that was what it took to learn, then so be it.
I remember one day while she was cycloning around my bedroom, she reached to the top of the dresser for a porcelain ballerina windup music box I’d received as a birthday gift from my biological mother.
I can still feel the absolute fury, the venom that my veins, fists, and eyes filled up with, while her hand hovered near that ballerina. “That’s MINE. Don’t. Touch. It.” I can’t recall, before or since, feeling anything near that kind of anger. Her eyes met mine and her hand sort of groped the air and then dropped. She walked out of the room, her feet making their signature heavy plods across the wood floor, and I was left to pick through my fresh cyclone of a room.
But that was before we got away. Later, we were free of them, my brother and I. The court annulled the adoption, we went other places, saw other things, went to college, made lives for ourselves, lives that were all leading up to an era when we could finally depict them cleverly on Facebook.
And so, you know, years down the road, I get a message: “Cyclone/Mommy Dearest lady wants to be friends on Facebook! Click to confirm her as a friend!” or whatever.
She must have Googled me. Life is like 10 times funnier now than it was back when Googling hadn’t been discovered.
I love my friends. They’re so creative, and sometimes I get to see their artwork on Facebook or photos from the trip they took to Nepal, or fancy things they’ve cooked. I post stuff too, like a photo from last night: These people were testing their jellyfish art installation in Dolores Park, and they needed volunteers to hold up the glowing jellyfish they’d made out of beautiful flowing translucent material and light bulbs and electric tentacles. There were 25 of us jellyfish running around, and it made passersby really happy. We were giant, beautiful jellies dancing in a park after dark, and if that doesn’t make you happy, I don’t know what does. Maybe try Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams.”
Anyway, I didn’t friend my adoptive mother on Facebook, because as much as we all hate to admit to such a thing, a lot of what’s on there actually represents my life – my big messy, happy, not-a-kid-anymore-you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do-lol life, and so yeah Cyclone lady, um, again:
MINE. Don’t. Touch. It.
Melissa Chandler lives and writes in San Francisco. You can come visit, but don't touch anything.
The Best Time I Cried Into My Keyboard At Work.
@heyits Indeed. That's two instances of desk-crying in two days, Hairpin. My mascara can't take it.
This is gorgeous.
Wow. This and the Ape Face post in consecutive days. Incredible.
I'm so happy that you have a big, messy, happy life.
@thebestjasmine
Making the most of the four day week, obvs.
There is such a quiet elegance to this piece.
Among the many mysteries of life and human behavior, the "folks who jump through the extraordinary hoops of adoption and then fail SPECTACULARLY as parents and as human beings" is one of the most confounding.
I'm so glad you got out of there, and fuck her for her presumption that she was entitled to any part of your life now.
@karion: Right up there with the "folks who jump through the extraordinary hoops of adoption and then GIVE THE KID BACK because he was too hard to handle." I really wish I was making that up.
The points about the grey areas of abuse, and how abusers can do positive things along with the abuse, reminded me a lot of this blog post: http://pervocracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/survivor.html
Some quotes from the blog that really resonate with this article:
'The best part about living through abuse–er, the only good part, really–is all the living you get to do afterwards.'
'When abuse doesn't involve violence, or involves very little, it's hard to label. Or when the "good times" aren't just non-painful but very good–my mother threw me lavish parties and took me on fancy vacations, and how the hell do you say a sentence like "when my abuser took me to Cancún"?…Abuse is almost never a simple case of a monster being monstrous, and that makes it hard to define when you've only heard about monsters.'
'I want to end this on a good note. And that note, for me, is simply waking up in the morning and knowing that I'm safe. It's yawning and stretching and looking up at the ceiling and thinking "Nobody will hurt me today." It's talking with Rowdy and knowing that I don't have to worry about saying something that will make him explode, because he does not explode and exploding is not a part of my life anymore. It's getting a parking ticket and realizing that the punishment is "now I have to pay the ticket," not "now I'm in a world of shit."'
@cloudmir
The fishing part reminded me of Pale Green Things by the Mountain Goats.
@cloudmir Wow, thanks for sending me to check out that piece. It's beautiful.
@cloudmir There needs to be a term, like 'gaslighting,' for the crazymaking inconsistency of abusers. Something that takes into account the abuse and the 'good times' spent half participating, half waiting for the next whirlwind of fuckery to start.
Maybe Christmastreelighting?
@steve Me too.
@laurel My therapist describes it like a slot machine (hey, I live in Vegas): You'll be on a winning streak, so those random times you lose don't feel as bad at first. Then you get on a losing streak and just when you don't think you can take any more, you hit a jackpot. Then you go back to the losing streak, hoping for another jackpot that rarely comes, but keeps you in the game.
Maybe Slot Machining?
@laurel I think the term you're looking for is "instability". Emotional instability, behavioral instability, etc. The lack of consistency ("consistency" – another official word) is rough not only because it makes it hard for people to really easily identify abuse, but because the instability and lack of consistency is itself a form of abuse (something about "intermittent reinforcement" (another official term found in psychological journal articles) – just like with gambling, as well as abuse – being harder for humans to get away from than just everything being totally horrible all the time, because you think "but, if abuser isn't in my life, then they also aren't helping me make rent, or buying me that one shirt I love but can't afford, or making me hot cocoa and putting on Some Like It Hot and cuddling with me after my boss has yelled at me" so you aren't so sure that you definitely want to leave, because sometimes it is actually good.)
@papayalily: Your examples are spot on, but no, none of those are the term I'm looking for.
@laurel : My father was wildly inconsistent with his love and his anger while I was growing up, my mother and I refer to it as "Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome".
@ohgodtheglitter I know I'm late, but THIS. So much this. This describes my life and childhood so much. I love my parents, I am even friends with them on FB, but the things they've done like telling me that coming out about my childhood sexual abuse was worse than the abuser abusing me and brainwashing (the term my therapist used) into their religion. I love them, but they hurt me so much. I don't know what to do.
Damn.
it continually astounds me how many people believe the world is black-and-white. The dark side effect of growing up in a "perfect family" I suppose.
Tears. Wonderful.
This was beautiful. Thank you.
YAY you and WOW.
This is beautiful, Fuldis. You are an amazing woman.
is this your real name?
the next time she googles you will she find this?
@deeee Oooh. I sure hope so.
Thank you for your post, and articulating the gray areas so well. My father's second wife tried to friend me on facebook this week, and I refused, for many reasons that are similar to the ones you describe. Thanks for confirming to me that it was 100% the right decision.
So awesome time see you writing somewhere new! Beautiful post, not that I would ever expect any less from you. Just a little sad that she won't see how fantastic you turned out without her, but definitely worth the independence…
This is a really naive question, and I hope that I'm not offending anyone with my ignorance of the adoption system, but how did people this abusive become adoptive parents?! And how did you get out of this situation?
I'm really sorry for what you went through, and glad you can write about it now with such wit and grace.
My father is kind of an emotionally distant jerk and we don't have the best relationship. He suddenly decided he wanted to add me to facebook, and I couldn't think of any way to ignore him without it being a big deal (he holds grudges). So I added him and then put him in my "distant relatives" list. That gave me a chuckle. I put stepmom in "miscellaneous." Why did he add me, so he can see photos my friends post of me when I am drunk? Is that really necessary?
Thanks so much everyone, for reading and responding to this! I <3 Hairpin people the best.
@melmuu Wow! This was powerful and well written. Cheers to you.
@melmuu
I love your boundaries.
@melmuu I just wanna smush you con hugs (if you would like.)
Jesus. Here I am having one of those awful days that makes me glad that I, as with all Certified Men, am only able to cry when (a)Watching Bryan's Song (b)a pet [dog only] dies, or (c)a father-figure dies.
And then this. It is a very good thing I plan on drinking heavily with a lot of rowdy Saints fans at Bar None tonight. So good.
@leon.saintjean HA. (dog only)
@leon.saintjean I would like to take this opportunity to tell you, Mr. SinGin, that though I don't actually know you, you are one of my Favorite Men.
Wow.
@melmuu
I love your boundaries.
Hairpin, you make my face leak in the home of my abusive/loving parents. Hats off (HEY-O…because of hairpins) to you and the badass, inspiring author of this piece.
I have had this thought that when my kids are older, we'd like to foster, in a hefty, long term fostering – the kind of fostering where the kiddo involved can make the decision as to whether they would like to be adopted by us. The reason? There is someone out there somewhere having a bloody miserable time, and we can help, therefore we should. Just… 'because'.
Reading your story makes me more convinced of that than ever.
@Zoonie@twitter I agree. There are too many sad kids with not enough love.
Thank you for this piece. The complicated nature of acknowledging all the moments (good and bad) with an abusive parent is just so difficult at times. It is a situation I know well.
"Giant, beautiful jellies." Lovely.
Thank you so much for sharing your story <3.
Good for you.
I'm just hoping my former adoptive family continues their internet silence.
This is a beautifully written, poignant and triumphant piece. You should be so proud. x
"nothing is ever black and white. This may seem obvious, but you’d be surprised at how many people think in black and white when confrontation arises." Yes. THIS. I can't stand it when people get so confused at the idea that parents don't just come in two forms: Awesome/health and Casey Anthony. Not all abusive parents shove their kids into the oven. Nor is everything an abuser does abuse. It's even more frustrating when people are so against child abuse (in theory, anyway), but never actually think about it, and never figure out for themselves what the various boundaries are – what's abusive (and how severely abusive it is), what's bad parenting but not necessarily abusive, what's maybe not something you'd recommend but also not bad, etc. Or take the time to realize that just because you know someone, even think you know well (maybe a family member) doesn't mean you know what their family situation is like when you aren't around.
You kick ass.
I'm too tired to put into words how much I loved this essay. Really, really amazing.
A) You are awesome.
B) Reminds me of the time my childhood abuser got someone to hack my facebook account and friended herself on it then confirmed it. I was made aware of this situation when getting the "so and so has confirmed your friend request." That i never made.
Wow, this is the either the second or third Hairpin post that makes me want to call my mother and remind her how awesome she is and how much I love her.
Also, this post is awesome and thank you for sharing it with us.
Wow. The cyclone lady sounds almost *exactly* like my mom. (She even hit me with a blowdryer once!) She is still in my life, though, and I am indeed Facebook friends with her.
In fact, I recently saw her online dating profile, and apparently she copied and pasted the "About me" section of *my* Facebook page into her OKCupid profile. She plagiarized her daughter's Facebook page. To help her get dudes.
She sucks.
@marz Ho.lee. eff. At least this means that you're so awesome someone literally wanted to seem like you just to be as attractive as you. How hawt are you, for realzies
(TW for stalking)
Wow. This made me cry. And, the parallels between this story and what happened to me are bizarre. Not only did I block every family member on FB, I deleted my FB account this week after the millionth time I was stalked and threatened on there. FB is not doing enough keep rape apologism and misogyny off of it. So, I'm done with it.
My mom was very abusive to me growing up, mostly emotionally, but there were some definite violent incidents (like being thrown on the floor and kicked when I was 9 just because I had gotten some boots dirty). She did the cyclone too, except her version entailed waiting until I was at school one day when I was in 7th grade and then throwing away all of my belongings, except for clothes and some stuffed animals. She never did any of these things when my dad was around, and he protected me if she did get out of line (which explains my reliance on men…but that's beside the point). Anyway, you're definitely right, because things are not black and white I mean, my mom and I are now pretty close. She's done a lot for me, outside of the abuse and in a way, she's made me who I am today (good and bad). She definitely can't hit me anymore and sometimes she'll say things that are way out of line, but I'll just tell her off when she does that. We don't bring up the past though…I do that with my therapist.
I've spent years trying to evolve a mantra for why I am totally cut off from my toxic parents, and why there will be no closure and reunion and happy ending, because I need to protect my life.
But I never could come up with a mantra, and in four words, you have given it to me.
As a Hairpin debutante, I was agonising over finding a place to make the first comment. Then, this – yes, to all of this. Arrows through the heart, yo.
Both my monster of a stepfather and my mother, his eternal getaway driver, have recently tried to friend me on Facebook, more than fifteen years after I chucked them out of my life with extreme prejudice. My fingers nearly broke the sound barrier hitting "decline"; of course, I then started the inevitable chewing on myself with the "why can't I just FORGIVEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Which people – mostly relatives I adore, who obviously have zero idea of the things that happened – encourage/insist I do.
Following the Facebook rejections, my mother has continued the tradition of sending me a shitty email once a year or so (usually on my birthday), reminding me that I am an awful person who is dead inside because I refuse to allow her love into my heart, blah blah blah, etc. I can cheerfully deal with this because it just reaffirms how FITH ("fucked in the head" – a term my therapist claims to have coined especially for the two of them) she and my stepfather probably always will be. Remembering that I am not in control of her behaviour – thanks, Adult Children of Alcoholics! – is helpful as well. But there's always a moment when it feels like I could be the bigger person; then the regret and guilt come screaming in, even though I intellectually know this relationship will never be okay. Leading an awesome life without them lurking all up in my business is really the best outcome.
So, that was my long-ass way of saying I feel you, I hear you, I know your pain, and admire the boundaries you've set around your big, messy, glowing jellyfish happiness. You win at life.
My mom did the cyclone thing too. Then I learned that if I get really really REALLY upset my reaction is to throw up. I learned this because one day she tore EVERY SINGLE THING in my room apart and left me to clean up the mess. I was like 7 and didn't know how to deal with it and so my response was to stand in the hallway and cry until I started uncontrollably vomiting. Eventually my mom came back found me and helped me clean. However, this did not stop the cyclone cycle from happening. Which, I still don't understand because my mom knew it would result in my throwing up and her cleaning up the mess.
The cyclone didn't stop until I was 11 and my mom said she was going to my room and if it wasn't clean she was going to empty out all my drawers and my closet. I was strong enough /angry enough to pick up my mom (who weighed close to 225 at the time) and throw her on the ground. It only happened once but once was enough for her to never hit me again or do the cyclone room thing again. I think the cyclone taught me to have anger issues but those resolved almost entirely when I moved out her house and into college.