Love the Way You Lie

It took me 4 months to listen to the song "Love the Way You Lie" by Eminem, featuring Rihanna. I still cannot bring myself to sit through the music video, as the song is emotionally triggering in itself, it brings back all those painful memories that have been stored deep into subconsciousness. However, one my ever-so-trustworthy defense mechanisms, intellectualization, helps me truly appreciate this piece of music. Eminem portrays the dynamics of domestic violence extremely well, although at the times, seems more extreme than most cases that I have seen. Nonetheless, aside from the dramatic effect, I am sure perpetrators sometimes do think "if she ever tries to fucking leave again Im'a tie her to the bed and set this house on fire." That's the beauty of this song: the abuser loves the victim, but the need for control leads to violence, and ultimately turns love into hate.

Finding My Birth Mother

It has been 10 days since I found my birthmother. I am over the initial shock, as I found her only on a whim the day after Thanksgiving. I randomly decided to visit www.registry.adoption.com where I typed in my birthdate and the location of my birth into the quick search feature. After I hit "search" my heart started pounding. Louder than I have felt it pound in my entire life. I then went into a panic as I read her profile description. "No way, this can't be her," I kept telling myself. I hastily wrote her an email*:

Hello,

I recently joined this site and after typing in my birth date and state your profile came up.... Please contact me back if you think you may be my birthmother.

Thank you so much,

Melissa

Less than 10 minutes later she responded. In her email she said, as far as she knew, her birthdaughter's name was Julie which could have been a name given at the foster parents home before going to the adoptive home. She also stated she was "under the impression" of the relative location of the adoptive family. I started to panic even more, my beginning to shake. She was correct on the area which we lived. "This cannot be happening," I continued to say to myself.

I called my (adoptive) mother, who was in the car with my (adoptive) father on the way to Florida. Since my father doesn't know what's going on at this point, I started speaking with my mother in "code". I asked her if she knew anything about a name given to me during my foster placement. She said, she didn't know why, but it had came to her the other day. She never wrote it down and (surprise), out of the blew, she remembered it. I asked her if it started with a "J" and she confirmed. She then began to cry. My dad was outside filling the gas tank when my mom started to break down. She told me that they had waited 5 years for me and it was meant to be... she wouldn't change anything but feels "bad about the divorce" and how that has affected us. She felt she was being replaced. My panic was replaced with pain. Pain for my mother as I felt her sorrow as we continued to speak. I told her that she was "non-replaceable," that she was (and will always be) my hero for her courage and strength to leave an abusive relationship. I told her she was still my mother, and I would not be who I am or where I am today without my life experiences. "This was and is not your fault. I love you mom."

*Edited Content

Early Art

I know art is not about the end product is more about the "process," but now that I look at this piece I feel aggravated. I love certain aspects, the "broken womb" image especially. The perfectionist part of me, however, dislikes the tears. The image I wanted to be portrayed was clear in my mind but I couldn't accurately depict what I saw onto the paper. My lack in artistic ability I suppose.

My "Inner Child"