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The Pregnancy

” It seemed like longer than nine months.  She had been moved ‘up North’.  Out of sight of society.  Alone, living with a kind farming family she drew on innate resilience and strength.  Sitting in the lawyer’s office after the birth, after signing her baby over for adoption, she felt a mantle of sadness wrap around her.  He finished the paperwork.  They both stood up and he walked towards her to open the door.  “Put this behind you” he said.  She never understood how to do that.”

Pain  Grief  Loss

Whilst the counselling which started in 2012 was for the sexual abuse it was an opportunity to attach on and work through the pain and grief of the loss by adoption of my first born child in 1970.

The experience of a ‘secret’ pregnancy and childbirth alone away from family and the subsequent adoption was a separate issue entirely.  It had severely impacted on my self esteem and there had been absolutely no counselling- ante natally, post birth, post adoption.  Western society up to the 1970s was cruel to pregnant single girls and women.  There was still the social norm and common mentality to shame and blame and try and make her disappear.  Get her out of society so we are not reminded our young women are having sex.  Heaven forbid!

When 2011 rolled in I already had twenty-one years of knowing my first born.  Purely due to my own relentless urge to search.  The pain and grief of the loss through adoption was not secreted away in my brain like the abhorrent sexual abuse memory.  This memory was not packed away it was on the tip of my tongue.  I wanted to talk about it but I couldn’t.  I had matured.  I’ve had a baby.  My body had changed.  I had stretch marks on my belly and was embarrassed to change in front of others like at a swimming pool changing shed.  Over the years I buried any thoughts of finding my baby.  I would day dream that if I could just know where he was, if I could walk past the fence of his house and catch a peep of him playing that would be all I needed.  The mantle of sadness seemed to be just beneath my skin and moved with me.Tears would roll down my cheeks if I read or saw a movie about anyone losing a baby.

The memory of the beginning of whole event was excruciatingly embarrassing.  It started when I had finally backed down and agreed to sex with my first boyfriend who was about to ‘dump’ me.  Dump me! What? Yes the relationship was at an end.  I knew it but some strange terror that I would be alone with no boyfriend encouraged me to allow sex.  My first time.  It wasn’t happy it was painful.  We broke up anyway.  I knew nothing about my body.  Shame from the childhood sexual abuse perhaps lead me to denial and ignorance.  Anyway I did know I hadn’t had my period.  I did know that could mean I was pregnant.  So in a lunchtime I caught a taxi from the city to our family doctor in the suburbs.  The internal examination was squirmingly uncomfortable and confirmed it.  A urine test would be absolute proof.  The family doctor rang my parents and told them.  What!  No privacy back then.  Could this be more embarrassing questions.  When did it happen? I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

No-one I knew back then talked about sex or what happens after.  To say the mood at home was like a thunderstorm with torrential obliterating rain would be an understatement.  I literally hung my head in shame, thought of how I could end it.  Could I jump off the harbour bridge? Of course was just thoughts that if I ended things there would be no more anguish. It felt as though the world had stopped I was the centre of everyone’s attention I had done a terrible wrong and there was no way out.

  Each hour was a lifetime.  I would have to resign my job.  I had just got a promotion.  The top secretary had left to have a baby.  Wonderful. news.  My enthusiasm, good enough shorthand typing skills and helpful hard working personality had brought me to the attention of the Manager and I landed the position.  Now I would leave, hurriedly.  Everyone would know why without being told.  Shame, shame, shame. 

The hardest was seeing Dad cry.  Mum told me in later years she wanted to keep the baby, help me – “but the MEN had all the say”, she said.  Our fathers decided no to marriage, yes to abortion, yes to adoption

Before I was sent ‘up North’ to a family who knew our doctor arrangements were made for me and my parents to travel to Sydney for an abortion. No-one knew my exact dates and therefore it was decided to try. I could not have been more mortified on this journey with my two ruffled parents. They were just doing their best trying to sort their wayward daughter out. We found accomodation in a very cheap bedroom shared bathroom in King’s Cross. The appointment had been made for the next afternoon A qualified doctor examined me and said ‘No too far gone’. I did feel like a ‘thing’ not a respected pregnant young woman. Well I was a deviant. I was unmarried. I was sexually promiscuous of course. The fact that I had one experience of consensual sexual intercourse was not for discussion. I just thought how unfair. The first time. I thought how the boy ‘got away with it’. We did not converse much throughout the whole debacle.

The taxi drive back to Kings Cross was crushing. Sitting in the back seat with Mum and Dad in the front nothing was said. Getting back to the tiny room with one single bed and one double, thin mattresses , llimp coverings, lino on the floor. There was no talk. I was inwardly thrilled. Although I had no idea what was ahead of me I felt vindicated. They had not beeen able to force me to have an abortion. Dad was glum and speechless. Mum and I said we would go out and find some food.

As we set foot outside onto the quiet street leading to Kings Cross we could see ahead of us the bustle of people. It gave me a sense of the world is still there, people are going about their daily business, I will get through this somehow. It did not take long to find food. An Italian takeaway with all manner of delicious handmade pasta with assorted tomato based sauces. Both foodies, we were in heaven and probably ordered far too much. All carefully placed in large tin foil dishes we hurried back to Dad and shared it out. Wonderful how soothing sharing food is and especially this as so well cooked. This was unique to us coming from New Zealand in 1969 as there were very few takeaways. Just your fish and chips and chinese from memory .

It calmed us and Dad even made a few jokes about the standard of the room compared to our motel. We would come through this I thought but I could not imagine how damaging it was really going to be. The return home was still galling as I had put my parents to this expense and had really hoodwinked them. I guess I just appreciated that they had to try for me and that they didn’t succeed. They wanted to put my life back on track. They knew how hard it was going to be looking forward. They could say they tried their best. I am not against abortion per se thinking it is the woman,s choice her body and yet as time has gone on I see the perspective of the fetus and wonder. Yet until there is more support for woman who seek abortion to support their child and have the required funds along with that then I’m still for women’s choice. . In some ways that was the only time during that time that I had a choice over my body until briefly I challenged everyone during labour.

IAfter returning I was hastily packed off up North. My parents drove me up there we met the young family with three children and Mum and Dad left. I was suddenly on a dairy farm with strangers.

It seemed I was pregnant forever.  I enjoyed the place I went to  I loved the countryside, the dairy cows, the quiet.  The family were kind with three young children.  They were struggling to make ends meet , christian and happy.  I joined the Mum in her daily chores, helped out.  Sewed when she did.  Baked when she did.  Went to town to shop when she did.  Active in growing camelias, and dying wool and weaving she was a busy person.  He was more than pushed on the farm all day and then spun coloured wool at night.  There was a regularity about my life which was calming.  I was lonely but not alone.  I made new dresses as I got larger and tried to as agreeable as I could. 

As my baby grew and started to send messages to me with his movements I began to develop a deep longing for him. Of course I did not know what gender he was until birth. I would retire to bed early and lie on top of the covers waiting for these messages. the little movements thrilled me. I could not dream of bringing him up but I could nurture him well while pregnant. I took walks along the tracks of the farm and breathed the fresh air. I maintained myself as calm as possible.

Before leaving Auckland I had visited the local Anglican Church and although not actively worshiping any more I kneeled at the back of the church all alone and prayed ‘that everything would turn out alright’.

Going to town to do the weekly shop was hard as I could feel eyes on me as I grew larger. Walking beside my ‘carer’ all knew what was up. I imagined them thinking ‘So they’ve got another pregnant girl there. ‘ My carer would stop and chat to friends and I would be standing there trying to maintain myself erect and chin up. It was difficult. I felt proud of myself outwardly yet I was ashamed inwardly. I was two people outwardly I was defiant inwardly crumbling.. I thought ‘you dont know my story I do not sleep around. Don’t dare judge me.’ Of course no one threw stones at me it was in my imagination but if you’re sent away up North you know you’re on the margins. You become sensitive to heads turned, eyes fixating, people pausing to check you out.

My resilience and strength reached new depths.  I had no idea of what to expect with the birth and was not inclined to find out.  The local doctor said “You won’t see the baby”.  I didn’t reply.  My eyes stared straight ahead, my mind accepted the information and the thought came back “I will see my baby whatever it takes.” I didn’t use the words “fuck you” in those days. But that was the expression I would say I felt in today’s world. “fuck all of you”.I will do what it takes to see my baby born.

What it took was silence.  When labour finally arrived I was already in hospital having had medication to bring it on.  A couple of nurses hung about at shift change asking me what I knew about childbirth.  Nothing.  So they described how I should ‘push” when the time came.  “Push like you’re doing a poo”.

I would remember and do just that. Lower back pain arrived and got intense.  I lay on my side and moaned it away.  Then I felt like I’d wet my pants.  What?  God how embarrassing.  I rang the bell and suddenly when the nurse examined me there was a flurry of action.  Call the Doctor!  I was wheeled into a bright clinical operating theatre area.  From then it was all ‘on’.  I found the pain when pushing intense – like pushing your already painful vagina into a burning fire.  Who wants to do that?  I did.  Without pain relief.  Somehow I knew if I propped myself up on my arms I would see my baby emerge.

The doctor said’ keep her down” I was too strong for that and threw their holding arms away.  I saw the birth, the cutting of the cord and my baby a boy, wrapped and taken out of the room.  Then I could relax back, be stitched up and feel the heady mixture of endorphins swirl around my brain and lift me up with joy.  I saw him.  I had achieved my goal. My baby was removed quickly from me into another room least I might change my mind.

Even though they tried to make me cower and be submissive and ashamed I could not be prevented from seeing everything.  I knew that was that.  My baby was gone forever. The relationship slashed, cut, broken, killed.  It was like a death.  In secret too.  Secrets, secrets, secrets, I was full of them.But I was euphoric and hardly slept overnight after the birth around 7.30pm. In the morning I stood up and fainted.

Opposite me in a large ward of about six beds was the only other patient with her baby. I threw thoughts and sadness away, I was on a high, but I did think it unkind that whoever planned these things had put us together. Maori she was a sweet mother of several kids and would have known what was going on since she would have thought here’s this pakeha girl with no baby. Without saying anything I walked over and admired her little baby and wished I could hold mine. I didnt say I was Maori because I had only recently been told by my mother than we had Maori ancestry. Nga Puhi. back in the 1830’s. I’d had no time to process Mum’s exciting news before I was packed off. I was intrigued though and that part of my life would be on hold for many years it turned out. I was instantly attracted to her and her kind accepting smile.

Later that day I wandered about a little and in a single room was a pakeha woman with her baby. We passed the time of day and again without saying she knew what had happened to me. Plus I came out with it, not saying much. There was a forgiveness in these women’s eyes which I loved we said nothing but I knew they knew and they knew I knew and I enjoyed looking at their baby but yearned for mine. Where was he now? After the euphoria of birth and doing it my way I wanted my baby.

Later in the day I realised exactly where he was. I wandered a bit further down the unfamiliar corridor and came upon a huge baby nursery full of empty cots except for one with a baby in it. My baby! My heart was beating so hard I felt I would faint – he was there!

I looked around – no-one. There was a door to my left beside this huge window I was looking through. While looking left and right like in a movie, time stopped. I stepped to my left turned the door handle, crept silently in. Tiptoed over to the cot. I looked to my right through the window up the corridor. There was a nurse hurriedly walking down, it was the Matron. I was then fixed to the spot.

she arrived and was through the door saying “and what do you think your doing young lady?” I started stammering. I had never stammered before. I’d been caught red-handed. I was guilty already. I felt inches tall but in my brain I was huge, strong and determined. However, my willpower, any strength I had was ebbing by the second. She marched over to the cot and said “well, he’s jaundiced!”

Having no idea what jaundice was or how it was caused I just thought ‘well guilty as charged’ – that’s got to be my fault! So I had already chosen defeat. Incredibly her next words were “do you want to hold him?” there was a long pause while the impact of what she was asking sunk in. Yet in a nano second I knew there was only one answer. “No” I said. Inside I was panicking – What? of course I do, I want to hold him, wrap him in a blanket and leave here like every other mother. But I couldn’t.

Stripped of all my strength I was small like a child. But I knew there was only answer to her question and is was ‘No’. Certainly I understood in that millisecond that I could no more bring him up with a happy life than fly to the moon. I had no ‘husband”, no finances, no home. I just had shame and that was no way to start. I would not be able to push him around the suburbs and stand people talking about me behind my back. I was a rebel but at that time did not have the wherewith all to realise the possibility of such a life.

So the answer was ‘No”. Matron had him in her arms so I got a good look. He was adorable and asleep. I felt like a young child who had just in the last 24 hours had become a mature woman with huge amounts of knowledge and awareness. I had leapfrogged through years of life and was able to envisage that a future with this beautiful baby was not achievable for me. I did not know then the grief and pain of shame and loss would dog me for another twenty years and beyond. However I could see that the decision had been made for me and I would do my best to go with the flow and sign all the papers and move on.

The Adoption

“Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. How could she give a baby away? Sobs started to shudder within her chest. Self hatred welled within her. Her beautiful newborn in her arms it was dark and quiet in the living room in the middle of the night. Not a soul witnessed her despair her shame her sorrow. Looking down on her helpless baby she was rocked with guilt, with terror with remorse and confusion. She asked herself how could she have done it? How did she give her baby away. As the sobs subsided she knew that she could not hold on to the secret any more, she had never forgotten him. she made a vow she would find him. There was no time to waste.”

On with the next stage which was the legal paperwork following the birth.

After leaving my baby behind in the hospital, alone in the crib with no idea what happened to him I was in shock. I made it through the days on automatic pilot. I was in a trance inside. Outside I may have looked together, I couldn’t smile, couldn’t laugh, if I was in a car I would hug the side of the car and let my gaze fall on the passing fields, trees, sky. I made myself small as I could. Unnoticeable. I would not make a scene, be the focus of peoples sympathy. I knew from some inner strength I must be beyond brave. Nothing less would serve me well. I would not be seen crying weeping howling which was what I wanted to do. I wanted to collapse into a ball and wrap myself in bedding and stay in bed for ever. I couldn’t. Life was moving and dragging me with it. I had to look like I was moving on.

There were legal documents to sign over my baby for the legal adoption process to start. There were explanations that I had a period of time to change my mind. I had to appear together ready to move on. The people around me were kind. They were a husband and wife, Christians, and their three young children. They frequently had young women living with them and like me having babies and leaving them behind. They would have worked out the best way to approach these young women after they returned from giving birth. Here one minute gone the next. Pregnant one minute not the next. A parade of women with ‘illegitimate’ babies. That was the term. I’m sure every woman reacted differently.

Numb with grief stoic and brave was my way. I had time to pack up my meagre belongings and get ready for the arrival of my parents to collect me and drive home to Auckland. A six hour virtually silent journey. Everyone was in grief I now realise. Back then I was only focused on myself. Now my daughter is about to have her first baby and I realise my dear mother and father did not get that grandchild. They too had to numb him out. No cuddles, no acknowledgement to the wider world of their grandchild being born , that they are grandparents The obliteration of the excitement and joy of that. . Yes, they were caught in the adoption web too and were now legally crossed off the birth certificate . That I have never acknowledged their grief shows how self absorbed I have been. Totally focused on my deep sadness shame and blame and my pain and grief of loss. Yet they only had to talk to me. Open up some communication. So I am not entirely to blame. Maybe they thought since I wasn’t volunteering any sadness and grief that I was alright. They were not brought up in the age of expressing feelings. A great loss for us all.

Once in the months before Mum died, I was talking about my first born and the relationship I now have with him and she said ‘I wish it could have been different, that we could have kept him. But the men had all the say’. It turns out that was a huge statement and music to my ears. Just to know that she would have liked to raise my son and keep him with us, and that the power of the men was what stopped that gave me some understanding about what we were up against. Some parents did do that. They railed against society and said ‘no that’s not happening, this grandchild will be loved in our family’ In Maori families there was the whangai system and the baby would be ‘adopted’ to relatives. The baby would always know who their mother was but they would be raised with close relatives or close friends or grandparents. Back then I knew nothing of these arrangements. Everything was secretive and I believed what I was told. This would be the way there was no other way. The other grandparents who were family friends seemed to have a lot of say. They were Roman Catholic there would be no marriage, no abortion there was only one choice – surrender my baby for adoption.

Thus started the keeping of my second sad secret. As before I internalised what had happened. Trying to pretend nothing happened. To the outside world I was just me a 20 year old yet I had to wear loose clothing. To myself naked I had huge breasts, in a binder to suppress the build up of milk. I had an ongoing loss of blood, I had a sutured tear at the entry to the vagina and floppy stretch marked skin at my lower abdomen. The memory could not be expunged that easily if at all. The enormity of what happened could not just disappear. Nothing was said. I could sense it in Mum she was real gentle with me , provided nutritious meals as always, and didn’t say much. I guess she sensed my shock, my inability to talk, and now I realise that approach was the best for me. I wasn’t able to talk, didn’t want to analyse. It was just getting through one day at a grief stricken time. keeping to myself, staying in my room, lots of sleep, hardly getting up most of the time. Staying hidden and licking my wounds. Eventually I joined the real world again and Mum was the one who found an advertisement for a job I went for it and got it and I was out and about again.

I did move on but the pain and grief of loss stayed with me and I used the comfort of alcohol and comfort overeating as a way to cope. I thought I couldn’t tell my secret. One true friend knew. I dared not let the secret out. I would be judged, shamed. I managed a control of sorts. I decided I didn’t want kids anyway but did find myself wondering and thinking about my baby so much it could have made me sick. So I would work out a way of not thinking about it too much but my behaviour was changing and I was risk taking with relationships.

After 20 years the New Zealand adoption law 1955 changed. Thanks to the work of many people an attempt was made to reverse the cruel nature of that law splitting mother from her baby and in fact splitting the baby from the wider whanau.   The birth mother or the child could leave a letter on the child’s social welfare file.  If the child wanted contact could be made.  Revolutionary. 

From the paperwork at the time” The basis of Western European society is the reporoduction and upbringing of children by their parents. For many Maori and other cultural groups there is a greater emphasis on the broader family. The Adoption Act was based on an assumption that the best way to conduct an adoption was in secret. The birth mother could then forget the ordeal and get on with her life, the new adoptive family unit could develop like any other family unit and an illegitimate child was legitimised. Longitudinal research into the experiences of closed stranger adoption indicated that the expectations of the 1955 Parliamentarians have ” The legal effect of adoption is to severe the legal ties between one or both of the birth parents and the child and establish substitute legal relations between the child and the adoptive parents. The change in legal relations does not alter the historical and genetic facts but may give adoptive parents a greater sense of emotional security in relation to their newly formed family.

In 1955 elaborate attempts were made to suppress such history. In an era when illegitimancy had significant legal and social consequence such policy was intelligible. The former has since been removed by the status of Childredn Act the latter is seen very differenetly.

In 1986 my ‘firstborn’ to the world arrived. Health professionals and hubby and parents knew he was not my first born. I was not a geriatric primagravida (a primup) at 36, I had had a baby at 20 . I was a multigravida (a multip) in the still used obstetric terminology. It meant I had already had a pregnancy to full term. Holding my newborn in my arms soothing his cries in the night I found myself weeping uncontrollably. Since his birth I had not taken my eyes off him, would not let him out of my sight while in the maternity hospital. Psychologically there was no one who I could trust not to take this child away from. me . So he got my full attention .

Without pain relief for the birth, I was on a cocktail of inner opioids, and on a high every day post birth. Once home, I came down like a pricked balloon. I would not show this side to the world though. Hell no. Even to hubby, I was ecstatic. And I was. But in the dead of night it got me.. What sort of person was I?’ How did I give my baby away”. This beautiful vulnerable perfect child in my arms. Where was my first born. The grief was intense and more real that the previous gnawing grief of having lost a treasure, having grown a baby and then gone, Where? The not knowing,t being about to check up, see, watch growth, milestones, What the! Anyway, sobbing hot tears running down and landing on my baby’s face shocking him also shocked me into resolve. Resolve to find out, find him, find my first born.

It was quite a few years before I actually made real progress and in that time the laws were changing regarding finding adopted children. I ruminated on it for years and then found a support group,. I would go every week and around the room concerned birth mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers would share their story. The first time I went I could not talk when it was my turn. I could say my name and then trying to state why I was there I choked with tears and had to pass.

The second time a woman spoke and she said she didn’t know why she still attended as she had found her son. She told us she married the birthfather and they had a daughter and then she later searched for her son twenty years later. She found him he had been killed in a motorbike accident two weeks before. That did it. I was so afraid that that would be my story I started m search with total determination.

I was pregnant with our second child and the year of my first born’s 20th birthday had arrived 1990. Since 1986 when my burden of grief overflowed with my newborn in my arms I had started tentatively to search for my first born. It felt wrong on one level but I was unable to resist the temptation. There were moves afoot in parliament to improve the adoption laws. I was blissfully unaware of this. I was just getting braver about talking to people about the fact that I had had a baby in 1970 and seeking ideas for searching for him. Always I had held the idea that if I just could know where he lived and walk by and look over the hedge at him at play that would be enough. To know he was alive well happy. A little glimpse of what he looked like. Did he look like me. I listened to lots of ways but mostly these were difficult and cost money. I procrastinated but I knew it was my ultimate goal.

Eventually fate was on my side and an MP by the name of Jonathan Hunt presented a Bill to parliament which would change a part of the Acoption Act and this would allow a birthmother or the child to put a note on file and if both left a note that they wanted to meet then a meeting would be arranged. Once I heard this awesome news I contacted social welfare and arranged to meet a social worker there. On the phone I was so like the young girl with the first news of her pregnancy. Ih ad a small voice, was constantly thankful and I was unimportant and grateful.

My search now had a sense of urgency. I made the appointment hesitantly shyly incredibly embarrassed. She was warm sweet kind. I immediately relaxed. We had a brief discussion. I had my carefully written letter to place on file. I must have been told on the initial phone call that I could do this just before his 20th birthday and this is what I was there to do. After I briefly told the social worker the reason for my visit and some particiulars, she left the room and returned with a file. It sat there a reasonably thick manilla file. At a point she opened it to read something. I was on the other side of a wide desk much like the time with the lawyer in that far off northern town. On that day just after my baby boy was born I was signing the papers for his adoption. And here was that file almost twenty years later.

Anyway, suddenly I hear her say ‘look I’ve just got to check on something” she looked across at me while she turned the open file around to face me and then pushed it towards me. She sort of looked me in the eye and said ‘I won’t be long. ‘ As if in a movie I knew exactly what she was doing. She was allowing me to look at the file. I did. I read his name for the first time.

My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t believe it. There was his name. I stood up placed the sealed envelop on top of the file and left the room briskly in a trance. I never spoke to the social worker again but am forever in her debt. With that tiny piece of information I was able to find him, look him up on the electoral roll, find that he was not listed with his parents in the far north, fall into despair thinking that he was dead, then realise maybe had moved. I slowly progressed though the entire electoral rolls of New Zealand finding him listed in a university town. Seeing his name on that page made my heat skip a beat, I looked in disbelief sitting in this local libary I copied his address and hightailed it out of there home to hubby with the news.

I found him. I became determined to contact him . I wrote him a letter explaining who I was.

Hot tears rolled down my face. I was a mess. A euphoric mess. I could not speak. Here he was an adult. All the years of pain dissolving. And because I couldn’t now make a decision about where and when to meet he said “I think we better meet soon!” Just like that.

In 1990 we had our first meeting about a week later. I was by then pregnant.  I was excited, nervous.  Scared that I would not be accepted.  Terrified that this person would be a wreck from having thought he wasn’t wanted.  Expecting he would not accept or want to met me.  But no.   He was nearly twenty, tall and looked like my Dad.  Smiling.  I said “Can I give you a hug, I never got to hold you”.  My nose reached his neck.  His skin was warm and memories of having my nose next to my father’s neck as a child flooded into my brain which must have been a memory from childhood. It was a golden tender moment,  he was family.

We settled down in the living room.  He sat in an easy chair and I sat on the floor facing him.   Hubby made himself scarce with our nearly four year old.  

How is it possible to love someone so much having never met them.  My body had supplied the nutrients.  The baby grew.  I gave birth alone.  I never touched my baby.  That was not allowed, they didn’t want me even to see the birth!  I had sought and found him. I was proud, stronger now and ready to begin this relationship. I didn’t know how I would do it but I would take it slowly and very carefully. Above all I wanted it to work.

By 2011 the relationship with my first born was open and awesome.  Twenty years of pain and loss had been erased.  I found my first born, he was alive and had a ‘normal’ upbringing.  He’d grown into a thoughtful warm kind adult .  The impact of the experience however had allowed me to add to the hate-mail I sent to my brain over the years and the story needed to be reworked so to speak for me to fully ‘love myself’.

The next post will show the yearly plan of behaviour change which I used to rebuild my self esteem.

I am developing a theory of how to deal with the deep sadness of the pain and grief of loss and shame, particularly relating to how I have now worked through these many decades and worked out a plan. I am calling it a theory and it relates to messages we give to our brain. I name my brain my life long buddy. We are our most important supporter, friend, ally and we should aim to love ourselves unconditionally. My writing on this subject can also be found at and on Facebook.

I believe our brains are our life long buddy and only we can give our brains the information to run our bodies, to maintain self acceptance, self valuing, control and discipline when needed, the opportunity to experience joy, laughter, friendships, love and romance and happiness, to maintain ourselves in as fit a condition as possible with good exercise and healthy food and wonderful relationships with our environment, employers, colleagues, friends and most of all our family.


The girl in the lavender dress

Categories: Uncategorized


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