The Silence Beyond the Swing

By Michelann Russell

The Silence Beyond the Swing is an intimate journey through the pain, trauma and self-renewal from sexual and mental abuse. This story highlights the darkness in the process of allowing oneself to forgive and break destructive life patterns. This is a raw and real read. Yet when we live through such horrible

• Language: English
• Publisher: Library and Archives Canada
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778149825

Book preview

1

THE DOGGIE IN THE WINDOW

My birth mother was only 16 years old when she got pregnant, and she was Mormon. I was, on reflection, worthy only of a one-night stand. Having a baby out of wedlock was not favorable with her family, so she was sent away to a home for pregnant teens and removed from the church. Then, on a cold and isolated day in February, she gave birth to me. As I understand it, she would not look at me, touch me, or hold me. She did not even feed me. It was just too painful as I represented a huge mistake for her. Within 24 hours, she walked out, and in the following days, my life started, and I was put into a foster home. I have no memory of that at all, but I have always wondered: who were the people that took care of me in the first months of my life? It’s like I have a totally different person within me, and I don’t even know her. As I think about the whole process and the developments I have come to understand, it mirrors an out-of-body feeling, lost within an unrecognizable moment. I would learn later that at the time of my birth, she never even told my birth father that I existed. I searched him out, he shared his side of this tale, and I felt saddened that he was robbed of knowing me. As a parent, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to receive a call from some stranger introducing herself as a daughter. Something that had always lingered deep within me was the lack of my inner soul circle, or as some might say, a completion. A child needs that security, love, and the unspoken knowledge that they are welcomed when they come into this world. I know this as there is no greater blessing and euphoric feeling than when I held each one of my babies. That’s when I knew true love.

In 1972, adoption was very secretive. Not a thing commonly done; maybe a last resort, I would say. As the story goes, during this time, the children that were up for adoption in my area were put in the window of the agency that was actually in a mall, kind of like a petting zoo, for when families walked by. The ongoing joke in my family was that when my mom and dad got the call, they went to this mall to pick me up. One of my brothers saw me and said, Oh, maybe we could take her. They ended up taking me home. I’ve always thought about that song, How Much is That Doggie in the Window? Well, that’s me. I was actually sitting in the window, longing for someone to love me.

I was between nine and 10 weeks old when I was adopted. When my family brought me home to their small town in Alberta, it is said all their friends and family came to see me. Show and share time comes to mind when I think of it. As I was growing up, I realized very quickly that my mere existence comes from a place of great resentment. I knew from when I was very young that there was a part of me that was just not complete. I struggled with the feeling of fitting in, and honesty, that has been a shadow that forever follows me. I also knew I was different inside, somehow, and that I didn’t look the same as anyone in my family. They never made me feel any different, but I just had a void in me. I never shared these feelings, yet at times they were smothering me.

It was in grade two when I really knew. The librarian told a story to our class about adopting a puppy. I went home that night, and I’ll never forget it. I sat down at the table, looked at my family, and said, Well, I know I’m adopted. You should tell me about it.

They were dumbfounded. They told me, It doesn’t matter. We picked you for a reason. You’re special. And that I truly believed. You see, it takes two things to happen in an adoption. First, a birth mom that is courageous enough to know you deserve a good life, so she lets you go, and second, a family that can open their hearts and love a child like their own, even if you didn’t come from them.

It still left me very insecure, obviously. I used to hide under my covers and think, If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. No one can come and steal me. I didn’t have any sense of security. I always thought someone was going to take me away. It was very hard and very confusing for me to understand in my younger years. Why would a mom give up her child? I just did not have the tools to comprehend it at the time.

Adoption, no matter how you swing it, impacts all adopted children. For me, it was no different. It gave me a huge fear of abandonment, a pattern which, sadly, became embedded in my life and belief systems. It has been the echo that follows me even to this day. I fought to fit in, and it bled into everything. I don’t know if it was the story I was telling myself or if it was a survival mechanism. Throughout my entire childhood, I let go of so much of myself. I didn’t own my voice, and I was always trying to be what I thought someone else wanted me to be. I knew if I could make other people happy, do what they wanted, fix everything, then maybe I would be good enough to be loved and even accepted.

The truth is, it’s only been in the past three years that I have come to realize that when people left my life, it was not because I was unworthy of love, and it was not because I am unwanted or not good enough. It was rather the completion of a cycle that brings lessons, memories, and great admiration for one’s choices.

A Porcelain Doll

My dad came from a blue-collar family, and he worked incredibly hard to provide for each of us. My mom, on the other hand, came from an upper-class family and had amazing parents, but she was raised with a very different ideology. My brothers, Dean and Jeff, were 10 and 11 years older than me. My mom specifically wanted twin girls, little dollies to be dressed up the same. But she didn’t get twin girls. She got me. Double her trouble.

My oldest brother, Dean, was very brilliant, outgoing, and fun. Everyone loved him so much. I remember him playing Kiss records for me when I was little. He took me to get candy, spent time with me, and we grew to understand one another. Silently, I knew he had his own struggles. When he had his own place and I would spend a couple of weeks with him, I pretty much had the run of the house. I loved it when he would let me drive his big-ass brown stick shift truck; that was freedom to me. As I became an adult, Dean and I would often share our stories over the phone, or he would show up to my apartment with five bags of laundry in exchange for dinner and drinks at Earl’s. It is those moments I forever hold tight in my heart.

Jeff was my second brother and was born with cerebral palsy. My parents were very protective of him, even though he was very capable of doing everything someone else could. For example, he is one hell of a golfer, and he loves people. I realized very quickly Jeff and my parents shared a very co-dependent relationship. As I grew up, I began to see the presence of a green-eyed monster. We butted heads nonstop. Jeff and I were playing in two totally different playgrounds, and his jealousy and constant life comparison with me had no future in what may have been a healthy sibling relationship. I always felt he wasn’t made accountable. He was babied, totally looked after, and self-consumed. The responsibilities of our family fell heavier on my shoulders, and soon I would begin to struggle with our lack of connection. As time passed, I saw this tension grow stronger, and it was followed by unforgivable conversations, statements, and words. It only pushed me to a place of no return. I strongly dislike the feeling and moment when I get to where I’ve had enough and I see I am looked upon as the one who needs to push her feelings away, shut up, and show up, and for heaven’s sake, make the shit right again. For many moons, I have done just that. I go back into the ring in total anticipation of the bull raging again.