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If you could raise your kids again, what would you change?
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 691318" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>Esther, I loved your post. I may have told you my mother's name was Esther. She died a year and a half before I came to the board.</p><p></p><p>I have spent the one year plus here trying to make sense of why her death so affected me, to the point of being incapacitated.</p><p></p><p>My maternal grandparents immigrated to the USA from Russia. They were never again to see their parents. My grandmother was 11 when she last saw her mother, or spoke to her. I believe much of the family that remained in the old country was murdered, but the adults never talked about it to us. Imagine that. We were pickled in all that grief that was never named.</p><p></p><p>Because we could, we achieved, but did not acknowledge the legacy of pain, that we had inherited. When I adopted my son, at close to 40, this was the first really profound relationship I had. The infant I chose had suffered already at 22 months, to the extent that I, the inheritor of so much suppressed pain, identified with him. </p><p></p><p>My mother, in an antidote to the suffering of her mother thought and lived life as a party. Being beautiful with beautiful stuff was the goal. When she died, I was left holding the bag. Of pain. </p><p>Where you live makes sense of your experience. You know why you suffered. There is a real cause. Here in America the misery is individual suffering, like a hangup. An individual burden that becomes part of you, like a defect...unrelated to the real and horrible truth, real events that continue to cause untold damage and suffering.</p><p></p><p>I tell my son, own your story. It is greater and more wonderful than any movie, and novel. Because it is yours. And me? I am not sure where I am. Loved your post, Esther.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 691318, member: 18958"] Esther, I loved your post. I may have told you my mother's name was Esther. She died a year and a half before I came to the board. I have spent the one year plus here trying to make sense of why her death so affected me, to the point of being incapacitated. My maternal grandparents immigrated to the USA from Russia. They were never again to see their parents. My grandmother was 11 when she last saw her mother, or spoke to her. I believe much of the family that remained in the old country was murdered, but the adults never talked about it to us. Imagine that. We were pickled in all that grief that was never named. Because we could, we achieved, but did not acknowledge the legacy of pain, that we had inherited. When I adopted my son, at close to 40, this was the first really profound relationship I had. The infant I chose had suffered already at 22 months, to the extent that I, the inheritor of so much suppressed pain, identified with him. My mother, in an antidote to the suffering of her mother thought and lived life as a party. Being beautiful with beautiful stuff was the goal. When she died, I was left holding the bag. Of pain. Where you live makes sense of your experience. You know why you suffered. There is a real cause. Here in America the misery is individual suffering, like a hangup. An individual burden that becomes part of you, like a defect...unrelated to the real and horrible truth, real events that continue to cause untold damage and suffering. I tell my son, own your story. It is greater and more wonderful than any movie, and novel. Because it is yours. And me? I am not sure where I am. Loved your post, Esther. [/QUOTE]
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If you could raise your kids again, what would you change?
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