So quite simply, one of the answers to the question ‘Why do we love?’ is ‘Because we are loved.’ It’s far easier to love someone back if they love and admire us. We shimmer in love, we bloom and we grow. A child deprived of love, strikes horror in our hearts and whips our apathy into uproar.
Polyamory also allowed me to spread emotional risk. Long time practitioners of polyamory would be appalled by this–they call it the ‘training wheels’ mentality and it objectifies others. They’re right. It does. And I did.
Listening to why your partner has now changed their opinion on an key area of child rearing, upon which you had previously agreed, as a result of a discussion with a metamour can feel like a threat to your children, to your parental relationship and your romantic relationship.
There are babies in abusive situations. There are children for whom the alternative is neglect, maltreatment, foster care. Or even worse. Children who badly need care, love and a roof over their heads. It makes me want to scream. Rocks pounds in my ears when I face the reality that adoption is the best alternative we have. How have we arrived at such a point that for some mothers their own survival means abandoning their children? Or for some children their best chance of survival is to be taken from their mothers?
It’s a big ask to claim parentage of me. I’m outspoken about my mistakes and theirs. About the way I live my life. I’m highly critical of adoption. Resuming more contact would mean facing up to truths, dealing with emotions he prefers to let slide. But if there is one thing about adoption that I can see now, it is that it gives you the option of being a parent or not. Adoption is apparently not for life. It is only enforced by the willingness of the participants to accept the contract.
At least I thought, I can as much work as possible in the time I have left to prepare myself mentally to lie, as I felt I would have to… for their entire lives.
And when your small child reaches in his nappy to explore his own excrement and wipe it on the sofa, well bleach is really only thing for it.
I write not to vilify her. I write because I own my story. I write to assert my existence. I write because silence around abuse, even emotional abuse, gives it the authority and space to continue.
Agency was conspicuous by its absence in my upbringing. My adoptive mother neither trusted in me, nor in my agency and this might be regarded by many as wise. After all what can a child know about the consequences of their decisions?