Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Desperately Seeking Vivian

It’s amazing what the subconscious can do. Every single year, as my birthday approaches, something triggers in me. Anxiety, sadness, grief, desperation, excitement, giddiness, enthusiasm, anticipation…all rolled into one. I get antsy with the need to “do something”. That “do something” can be anything – start a project, finish a project, plan a party, make a big purchase, make vacation plans, find my birth-father, find my foster mother…

“Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…time is running out, Jackie. How old is he now? Is he still alive? What was his name again? Oh yes. Bruce. Bruce what though? Does he remember I exist? Did he ever wonder if I was a boy or a girl? Did he ever tell his wife that he conceived a child with someone else? Do his children know they have a sibling? Do I resemble him in any way? Has he ever tried to find me or did he completely erase me from his memory?  Dickhead. Asshole. Jerk. I don’t need to find him. He’s just a sperm donor. Fucker.”

“Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…time is really running out, Jackie. How old was she when I was her foster baby? She was probably a grown woman and I was probably one of many fosters. I bet she wasn’t very nurturing or loving. I bet I was just a source of income for her. Vivian B. from Garden Grove. My dad’s shop was in Garden Grove. My elementary school was in Garden Grove. The stores I frequented with my mom as a little girl were all in Garden Grove. I wonder if I passed by her and never even knew it. She named me Jenny. If I found her, would she remember that baby girl she had in her home for almost two months in 1970?”

When I started this blog on May 1, I wrote this for the section “What is my blog about”: 

What is my story, you ask?

In a nutshell, my story is about losing a mother, gaining a mother, losing a mother again, wishing to be a mother, learning about a mother, becoming a mother, becoming a childless mother, longing to be a mother again, meeting a mother, becoming a mother again, searching for a mother, finding a mother, losing a mother again, meeting another mother, becoming a mother again, and searching for another mother.

It's a mother of a story, as I like to say.  

That last part…”searching for another mother” refers to Vivian. That is the quest I was on in 2014. And then I wasn’t anymore. And now I am again. That’s how it goes. These waves of desperation to know more about my past hit me out of nowhere. And then after a while, I retreat and take a break. Mentally it’s a lot to deal with and it’s exhausting. My mind decides when to search and when to stop and when to start again. As of this morning, I am on the hunt again for Vivian B. from Garden Grove. Last night when I went to bed, I had absolutely zero idea that this is what I would be doing today. That’s how out of nowhere it hits.

Vivian B. where are you? Who are you? Do you remember Baby Jenny? Would you be happy to hear from me? Because I would be so happy to hear from you. You were my second mother and I thank you for taking care of me and giving me food, clothing, and a warm place to sleep before it was time for me to go to my forever mom. No matter what the circumstances were, you did a great thing and I want you to know, you made a difference. I want you to know that baby Jenny turned out okay. She was deeply loved and cherished by the world's greatest mother and she grew up happy and feeling that she mattered.


Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Use Your Gifts

My story-telling came to a screeching halt last May. It’s been eight months since I last wrote about the trials and tribulations of my 20’s. At this point, I find it really difficult to pick up where I left off. I mean, for me, it’s easy to keep writing since it’s my story; I lived it; I remember it well. But to the handful of readers who were following along, well, I just don’t think they give a rat’s ass to find out whatever did happen to crazy-ass Jackie. And even if they did, how could they just pick up and start reading without feeling lost? It would be like picking up a book you haven’t read in a long time. You have to go back and re-read a couple of chapters to remember what the hell was happening in the story. And who wants to do that with my blog!?

So why did I stop writing? I’ve asked myself this question a lot. I don’t think I have just one answer. It’s complicated. For one, writing about the past stirs up a lot of negative memories for me. It takes me back to those feelings and it brings me down, sometimes for days. So there’s that. 

Second, I’m writing about real-life, still-living people. Do I write a soft, cushy version of how it went down or do I tell the truth? I’m a truth-teller. It’s hard for me to sugar-coat things. I like to tell it like it was. So if I can’t do that, then I’d rather not do it at all. I mean, I CAN tell it like it was, but then I have to think of the repercussions of doing so. Do I want to risk inviting drama into my life? Is it worth it? Is it necessary? No.

Third, I just didn’t feel like it anymore. I suppose it’s because of reasons 1 and 2 that I haven’t had the energy or desire to write. Instead, I have spent a lot more time doing art. Art is great soul-work for me. I’m using my creativity; it’s meditative and relaxing. And it’s pretty. Who doesn’t want to make pretty things instead of remembering ugly times?