Hey my therapy is finally paying off...

Back when I was a kid I was forced to go into therapy. The whole taken away from my biological parents, foster care and adoption thing being the reason. Your tax dollars at work, or your parents as this was almost thirty years ago. The only therapist willing to take the medical insurance provided by the government for adoptive parents, bet you didn't know the government picks up the tab for health care for kids adopted out of foster care, I don't know if they still do but they did for my parents. My mom had to drive an hour each way once a week to take my older brother and I to therapy. We had to ride in the back of the van. In those days there weren't mini-vans, just vans. Our van wasn't finished, there were two seats in the front and a big cavity in the back where my brother and I would lay on the floor and try not to anticipate turns. This was a recipe for disaster as my brother and I would fight the whole hour. The louder we fought the faster my mom would drive. By the end we were terrified.

Typically a therapy session would consist of meeting with one of the dozens of therapists, a different one every time. We would play games, go for a walk, eat French fries or whatever. One day my mom was so upset when we got there that she screamed at the receptionist, she wanted to talk to the therapist. She said something like, I don't know what you talk about in these sessions but how about you try and figure out how to get those kids to stop fighting the whole drive here every week. She screamed and hollered and one of the therapists talked to her for the hour. So Daryl and I were put together with a different therapist, one we had never seen before. He played games with us and didn't really say much, just listened while we went on and on about what a horrid mother we had. Finally at the end of the session he went all Dr. Phil on us and told us what ungrateful brats we were. I think he yelled more than my mom. While I was an ungrateful brat this didn't work and I refused to speak to any therapist ever again, I would just sit there and say, I get yelled at enough at home I don't need to listen to it here too. I was a gem of a kid.

Finally the only woman therapist took me under her wing. We went to a farm house in the country, two hour drive for my mom, and we walked together and talked. At the end of the session I remember admitting to her, tears streaming down my face, that I hate my mother. She said we made great progress and I never had another session with her again. I think my next session was with the yeller, he said no one else is available is ok to talk to me this time. He promised not to yell. I didn't talk again about hating my mother. Never really thought of it again until last week.

Last week I was sitting on the couch with Mandy and Lily. They were fighting. Mandy was touching Lily's book and Lily was screaming about it. At first I told Lily to stop screaming but then as Mandy kept on touching the book, I screamed at her for egging on her sister. Then I looked in Mandy's eyes and I saw her perspective. I saw myself as a teenager. My little brother was so spoiled too. I thought that my parents loved him so much more than me. He was their biological son and I was the adopted kid. I can't remember how many times I over heard my mother explaining to anyone who would listen that she wished she had been able to raise us since birth. What she meant was that she wished we had been spared the horrors of our childhood before they got us, instead what I heard was that it isn't her fault I was such a crappy kid. For me it all shifted in that moment on the couch with my girls. I actually realized for the first time that I had it all wrong, that my parents adored me. Just like I adore Mandy even when she picks on her sister. The reason they treated me different than my little brother was because I was 9 years older than him, duh.

I also realized that while I really did hate my mother my entire childhood, it wasn't a justified hate. Perhaps I was transferring the hate I had a right to feel toward my biological mother. Perhaps I was protecting myself from getting hurt again. Logically being a stray kid brought in from the harsh world into a loving family I should have felt grateful. A beautiful family was made. I needed parents and they desperately wanted a kid. That isn't how it worked. I hated them. I felt no gratitude. There wasn't a single hug freely given. I sat around finding fault with their every action. It took me until now to figure it all out. The greatest joy I have as a parent is the vast amounts of unconditional love my girls shower upon me. I wasn't able to give that love to my parents, so they had twice the work and none of the benefits.