Disappointment Day (a.k.a Father’s Day)

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Here it comes. In shades of blue greeting cards, barbecues, and goofy tee shirts proclaiming World’s Greatest Dad, Father’s Day is upon us. At any minute, Facebook will overflow with gushing remembrances and salutes from little girls (long since grown) who adore their daddys.

I envy them. I envy all women loved by fathers who showed them respect, love, adoration, selflessness. I envy their happy memories of a daddy’s arms- safe, warm, tucked in.

Father’s Day is the saddest day of the year for me.

As an adoptee, a cat-drowning, wife-beating, son-of-a-bitch father raised me. Yet, I’ve spent a lifetime aching for his love. As a child, I tried to be a better daughter by appealing to his masculinity. I thought if I grew harder/more boyish he might like me better, or at the very least, stop trying to kill my mother and brother.

Later, it became apparent that toughness would never have appealed to Dad. His free-wheeling fists camouflaged a hidden gender rage that would blow up my life. My father transitioned to become a woman in her seventies. She died in 2015 on the very spot where my terrible, twelve-year-old self, planned to kill her. (My memoir Transgressions in Rouge coming soon).

My biological father, a retired Delta Force officer, whom I found after a five-year-search, is very much alive. At least I think he is, as we have not been in touch for years. He decided that rather than engage in the healthy father/daughter relationship I crave, he would continue to live in a paranoid state of distrust.

When I first found Delta Dad, he was ecstatic. It soon became apparent that he was still fighting the wars he survived. He raged at me like a mad dog one day, and I walked away choosing to distance myself from any further dysfunction. I reached out to Delta Dad again recently, and he decided again that he’s not interested in a relationship. I say again because he also denied me when he found out my birth mother was pregnant in 1963.

Having spent a total of 12-years (pre-internet) searching for the biologicals (closed book NY adoption in the 1960s), I am quite attuned to my needs. I always knew that I needed my history, my story, and the story of my ancestors to feel complete. I searched and found to become solid, defined. Before finding my blood relatives I could not focus on what I would be. I was far too busy finding out who I was.

Likewise, I see patterns in my behavior that reflect the blank space of lacking a father. I need one, and because it is unattainable, I find myself drawn to friendships (or fanships) with men of a certain age. I find solace in their respectability, honor, achievements. I guess they look to me like father material. Desperation casts fatherly shadows over strangers.

Fatherlessness is my wound.

I share my disappointments this Father’s Day for those who have a decent dad to hug; for those who recall tender moments with their father. You have my one missing thing. Love him, embrace him, keep his memory close, share his stories with your children. Make his love your legacy.

Blessings that my disappointments light your way,

V.L.

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Decades after Reunion- What Bond is This?

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I lead a blessed life. My family is healthy. We have a roof over our heads, and we are free from hunger. Having known times with my adoptive family when this was not the case, I appreciate everything. I am content and feel pretty darn accomplished…until I call my first mother.

Twenty-five years after the reunion, conversations with her turn me back into the given away infant in the photo I keep on my desk to remind myself how far I’ve come.  firstphotoI know this is my wound (Primal, I guess), and an issue I really should have worked through by now.  I do use the brilliant coping exercises in the book Adoption Healing by Joe Soll, which gave me the background chant I use when first mother contact spirals me into an infantile turmoil.

“It’s not happening now. She is not leaving me. That was a long time ago.”

I can hear readers of this blog (especially those who are still in search) clucking their tongues at my daring to deflate the bliss of knowing who bore me. I get it. I am sharing this as a warning, a guidepost to help you understand the feelings of woe that often surface long after the honeymoon of reunion ends. (To be fair I must mention that there is nothing she can say or do to change this. She is kind to me, and giving.)

Despite the effectiveness of Joe Sol’s Adoption Healing exercises,  I still wallow after our conversations in a strange limbo of being an alien in her made-up world.  I belong to my first mother by blood, but unlike her other children (the kept ones) I cannot experience the true/unconditional state of her motherhood. Unconditional love is a feeling I understand and define by my adopted mother.

If you ask me what makes conversations with my first mother so debilitating, I would say it is that she reacts to the kept siblings in a manner consistent with shared experience. While I have shared two adult decades with my first mother, the essential bond of being present in my formative years is missing.

We have all witnessed the ribbing, joking and comfortable behavior of family units. Most have a relaxed, informal way of acting around each other. This family interplay is a representation of years spent living together, agreeing, disagreeing, and seeing the world through shared experience. They are a unit.

As an adoptee, I can never be an ordinary member of my first family. No matter what is said or shared, she raised my siblings. She acts differently around me, less comfortable, more formal, guarded. For years, I thought I imagined her awkwardness when we visited, and the opening blossom of her real self with my half-siblings. Only a close family friend’s comment assured my that it was the truth when he said, “she acts so differently around you.”

I am a grown ass woman and a long-reunited adoptee. Still, the ripples of my relinquishment tear at my heart in ways I was sure reunion would settle. Bonds stolen at the moment of separation can be yearned for, but never fully repaired. I am still happy that I searched, but hate the awful truths that adoption has cast on my life.

Blessings for reunion and healing,

V.L.

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Healthline Names Adoptionfind a ‘Best Adoptee Blog for 2017’

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As a blogger, reunited adoptee. abuse survivor, and writer, I live in a whirlwind of emotion. Occasionally, I am able to capture those feelings and heave them onto the page. The result, when I don’t delete the post, is this blog.

This morning, I am honored and blessed to report that adoptionfind has been name one of

Healthline’s Best Adoptee Blogs of 2017.

“V.L. Brunskill is an adoptee and acclaimed author who found her birth parents 25 years ago. Her writings about how the current political climate impacts adoption have a literary quality. One of her most touching posts was from Mother’s Day. She wrote a moving piece in which she speaks fondly of her adopted mother and birth mother.”

Thank you readers and heathline for the love.
I promise to share more and to stop deleting the tough stuff.
Blessings that you may live your truth,
 V.L.
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View the Waving Backwards book trailer-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_ufjmq0l-U

Bully President- Daughter of Transgender Dad on Trump Rescinding Bathroom Law

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Yesterday, President #Trump rescinded the rule on #bathroom choice for #transgender students. Without an iota of empathy or understanding the President (under pressure from right wing, ding-dong Attorney General Jeff Sessions) took away non-discrimination rules put in place by the Obama administration.

Our bully president demanded that Education Secretary #DeVos agree with his bold-faced bigotry. Telling her, according to The New York Times, “that he wanted her to drop her opposition. And Ms. DeVos, faced with the alternative of resigning or defying the president, agreed to go along.”

The reason behind this heartbreaking decision is right winger’s fears that transgender people using the bathroom that corresponds with their gender identity will create an unsafe environment for children. Nothing could be further from the truth.

As the daughter of a brutally abusive man, who transitioned to become a women in her seventies, I have a unique view on this topic and can tell you that fearing transgender people in the bathroom is about as set in reality as having Mexico pay for a border wall.

Here’s what I want all the bathroom quaking, fear-mongers to know:

  1. You are already using the same bathroom as transgender people. You have been for years. Are your worse off? Have you been harmed? Attacked? Please get over it.
  2. Forcing a person/student who lives as a girl/woman (or visa versa) to use the men’s/boy’s restroom will incite violence, bullying, depression, and suicide. In the case of public schools, yesterday’s ruling is nothing less than publicly mandated child abuse.
  3. Forcing trans people to hide their truth is a ticking time bomb in terms of mental illness and suffering. My father was from an entirely different generation and denied her truth for more than sixty years. While it was by no means, the cause of all her dysfunction, denial and hiding certainly ignited hyper-masculine, coping behaviors which resulted in the brutal abuse of two families.
  4. Transgender people do not want to be called out for being different. They are not trans for attention. It’s not a phase. These fellow human beings were born into the wrong bodies. Like squeezing a size fifteen foot into a size four shoe, their bodies never fit, and no amount of force will make it so. They are not the gender of their birth. Genitals do not define gender.

The idea that Secretary of Education DeVos, is so weak-willed that she kowtowed to Trump, sentencing a segment of America’s school children to torment, torture and horrific discrimination, further proves her unworthiness and the hateful spirit of this administration.

A transgender woman (living in denial) beat my family into a homeless shelter. Yet, even I can see the truth. Why? Because as I write my memoir Transgressions in Rouge, I am taking the time to learn. I have researched my father’s behavior, her transition and what is means to be a transgender person.

Please, right wing America, I beg you to take your head out of the toilet and attempt to understand the truth of being transgender.

This nation needs to quit worrying about who has balls and who does not. It’s none of your business. Except for when it comes to Trump, whose actions yesterday are a clear indication of a testicular deficiency gone wild.

Help Author Panowich Raise Funds for Domestic Abuse Shelter

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My author friend Brian Panowich is a superstar supporter for the Safe Homes Domestic Violence Shelter in Georgia. He is participating in a fundraiser, and I humbly request your help.Brian Panowich.jpg

As some of you know, my current book project Transgressions in Rouge chronicles my adoptive father’s abuse of two families, and his transition (late in life) to become a woman. I watched helplessly as my father brutalized my mother and brother for twelve years. The scars left by his madness will never fully heal, but are the catalyst for me to speak out about the pervasive violence that is happening right NOW.

When my mother, brother and I escaped, we stayed at a family shelter for victims of domestic violence. Housed in an old motel, the shelter was the first of its kind on Long Island, New York. Without that shelter and the amazing staff of volunteers who ran it,  we would have been trapped in the cycle of terror.

In America, one in four women are abused by their domestic partners.
Organizations like Safe Homes are their only way out.

Donating to this essential organization is easy.  Just click here and  choose the ‘Donate Toward a Team or Individual’s Goal’ option. Search for ‘Brian Panowich’ and give whatever you can afford.

Shelter is freedom. Freedom is life.
Blessings for a safe place to be,
V.L.

Waltzing with Ghosts (Forgive My Absence)

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There is truth in memory. It is a truth laced with opinion built on years of re-framing life images. As I work on my second book (first memoir) spirits long since transcended, sit beside me urging me to their truth. I dig deeper and deeper to see them as whole human beings, frail, wanting to be loved, unsure, making their way in the best manner they could. mansion-1

Haunted. It is the best word to describe the process of trying to uncover beautiful prose in a past so horrifying that I often think it happened to someone else. The words never seem right. Never large or accurate enough to tell the tale of honing my faith in hell. How does one describe God’s grace? When my finger left the trigger of my father’s rifle, on the day I planned to kill him, I looked up to the marble crucifix. Porcelain Jesus looked back. His suffering was more than mine, and somehow at that moment I knew my tortured family would be okay.

Denial. I have spent more than thirty-years hiding from my truth. I did not know I was running, swiping away what my heart owned. “I survived. I’m strong”, I would tell those who asked about growing up in a constant state of battle. Shhh. Don’t mention your adoption anger. Dysfunction cast in a light of character-building is easier for others to stomach. So, I swallowed the loathing, fear, and vulnerability of abuse in a great big pill called denial, riding the effects until earlier this year. Now, as I experience inevitable withdrawals, I withdraw from you my readers, and friends.

As I write, monsters who choked the justice from my childhood encircle. Scratching at my soul, they fight the exodus that will free me. They crowd my mind, pushing and hollering to be heard on my precious pages.  I dance with and away from the exposure they flaunt.

Winter is coming as I work to complete this book. As frigid nights zap the green from marsh grass to reveal roots and decay, so topple barriers long forged to hide my truth.  If I seem distracted, please forgive me. I am waltzing a glorious, tortuous last dance with powerful apparitions.

Blessings for a peaceful, loving Thanksgiving,

V.L. Brunskill


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View the Waving Backwards book trailer-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_ufjmq0l-U

Awakened to American Hate- A Hermit Retreats

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Struggling of late with the reality of hate. Hidden vengeful thoughts, that when shared among like-thinkers, explode into personal reality. Among the pretty, responsible faces of America, there is a shameful feeling of superiority. Witnessing this of late, in the judgement of all who are not like us, has spiraled my soul into despair.

A hermit at heart, I spend much time alone, thinking, reading, writing. So when I venture out, I am often slapped by the bigoted beliefs of others. Lowering noses, staring, judging.

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A Hermit Praying — Gerrit Dou

I am not beyond reproach in these matters. For awhile, I considered the viability of the wall. You know the one. A border to keep illegal immigrants from American soil. At first glance, I believed that illegal is illegal. That all who break the law should be ousted, as to preserve the integrity of our land and systems.

However, education, and a single young woman’s story changed my mind about casting one rule for all immigrants. Judging any group based on a label is dangerous. Labels are inherently biased. To broadly brand all members of a race, political party, gender, or religion as one thing will never equal truth.

Let me tell you about Carnita. Carnita is eighteen years old. She came from Brazil at a young age when her mother married an American citizen. She speaks three languages. She studied hard and graduated from high school. She carries herself elegantly and speaks with an eloquence far beyond her years. I have know Carnita for five years.

Three years ago, Carnita revealed to her mother a terrible secret. Her step-father had been raping her since the age of seven. The American was a pedophile. Carnita was terrified to tell, because she knew that her family would be in jeopardy should her mother and stepfather divorce.

Her mother divorced the American. The courts found him not guilty. Carnita never had a rape kit processed.  The court believed that she would have come forward sooner if it was true. The immigrant family had no legal recourse. They became illegal immigrants once papers expired. A rapist American gave them the right to live here and took it away.

So Carnita, now graduated from high school is at a standstill. Jobless, fighting for her driver’s license, and unable to attend college, she struggles to find her way. She watches her American friends move forward, frustrated by her inability to do so. I have told Carnita that I will sponsor her, help her file forms, whatever is needed to allow this sweet child to move forward. She wept when I offered this, but there was also fear in her beautiful brown eyes. Fear, I could tell, for her family who, if found out, could be deported.

This young lady reminded me that every immigrant has a story. Whether they arrive carried in by parents who marry Americans, sneak over boarders for work, or fly in as tourists and stay, each arrives with a human heart filled with hope.

Carnita was raped by a ‘born and bred’ American citizen. She will pay for it for the rest of her days. When she becomes a legal American, she will love this country. She will feel blessed to live here. She will not judge us based on one criminal American. She will not assume she knows all Americans because of the American who raped her. She will take each American she meets at face value, judging them based on their individual story, actions, and intentions.

I am weary, and embarrassed by the comments of racism, hate and bigotry that have been spit out in my presence of late. So I crawl, ever so quietly back into my writing cave.

Blessings for less ignorance & more tolerance,

V.L. Brunskill


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Waving Backwards book trailer-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_ufjmq0l-U

Unbearable Sadness- Pulse

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Like most Americans, I am in a state of mourning this Monday after the worst mass shooting in U.S. history. Work deadlines, bills and responsibility call me. Yet, I cannot stop thinking about the horror that took place in the Orlando nightclub.

The fact that the club called Pulse was a LGBTQ bar makes the depth of grief  even more unbearable.  As the child of a transgender father who spent most of his life making my family suffer for his gender, I relish (in fact adore) any business or place that allows LGBTQ people to experience belonging and community.

When a club embraces people of different experiences, beliefs, genders, colors, and creeds, there is comfort. With comfort comes the ability to thrive. When people live fully immersed in the knowledge that it’s okay to be who they are, society blossoms into a colorful rainbow.

I believe that had my adoptive father known a place where he felt accepted for the gender he knew was true, he might not have beaten my childhood into a sad memory. Acceptance of self often begins with the embrace of others. When someone is encouraged to shine in their intended spirit state, they are able to add happiness to the world.

Being the child of a transgender person who could not accept his/her true identity, makes me sensitive to the rights of the LGBTQ community. When this group of humanity (in its infinite forms) can thrive, dream, and exist in peace- struggle dies. Struggle is pain. With pain relieved, a generation of suffering evaporates.

Pulse was supposed to be a safe place. On most nights, Pulse lifted up LGBTQ patrons to dance in delight of their individuality. This weekend, the devil entered the happy place, attempting to destroy that community. He failed. Bruised, this community will need time to mourn, for the losses are many. But they will return stronger, and hopefully knowing the world wishes them freedom of expression and love.

Just sad,

V.L.


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Waving Backwards book trailer-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_ufjmq0l-U

 

 

 

 

 

Ten True Things for my Daughter and the Graduating Class of 2016

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Advice will come from many mouths as you finish the long journey to graduation. Some will wish you luck, but I wish you something more- karma. The future rests in your capable hands and if you choose the path of kindness, humility, empathy and charity, yours will be the most fulfilling future.

As I have passed the half century mark, I have learned a few life lessons.  On this graduation day, I share ten true things that I’ve learned along my way.graduates

Always say I love you. You never know when it will be the last opportunity to do so.

Travel often, and far. When you have an opportunity to travel, do it. Life builds boxes and boundaries around us. Break free, travel. The opportunity to travel may come with college or in business. Don’t be afraid. Take every trip you are offered. Someday your body will not be able.

Don’t take it personally. People are walking around with big insecurities, doubts, regrets, and they deflect these things to others in order to free themselves. Smile when they frown. Be gentle when they lash out. You may be the only happiness they experience that day.

Attend college to learn and grow. Grades are important, but opening your mind to care about what you are being taught is the truest education. Ask questions. Challenge opinions. Expand your mind and your heart through knowledge. Take classes even after you graduate.  Try to learn one new thing every day.

Marry the steady, constant companion who makes you smile, puts your feelings first, and makes your heart skip a beat or two. Marry with a lifetime in mind. Don’t rush. Don’t jump. Don’t take those vows unless you know you have found the other half of your soul.

Do good deeds, and don’t tell anyone. The things that will give you the greatest contentment are not things at all. They are the small actions– helping someone who is short of cash at the register, carrying someone’s groceries, holding a hand of someone who needs to be reminded they are not alone. These are the greatest gifts you will ever give yourself, and others.

Be true to yourself. Never, ever change to suit someone else’s expectations. Be your true self and you will shine for all of your days.

Worry less. If I had a nickel for every worry I fretted over, that ended up being for naught- I would be a millionaire. Bad things will happen. You will find a way to survive. Worrying steals years and precious moments better spent living.

Look for the light. When the days are dark and you cannot see your way around an issue, step outside and look for the light of life. Watch a bird fly. Feel a breeze on your face. Smell a flower. Howl at the moon. The light of hope is everywhere, and I have found that when I am down, forcing myself to look for it, eases the emotional toll of the issue at hand. There is power in changing your physical location and stepping into the light.

Make friends. Join clubs, organizations or churches, even if you don’t feel like it. Nearly everyone feels socially awkward. Even if you happen to like your homebody, introverted life, make an effort. Life is lonely. Social Media is okay, but you’ll need a hug one day, and that phone/pad/laptop will never be able to wipe away a tear, or hold your hand. Make the effort and even as friends fall away. Keep reaching out to make new ones. Social life is the spark that ignites great ideas, love, companionship, and social change.

Blessings from my heart for all graduates,

V.L.

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Waving Backwards book trailer-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_ufjmq0l-U