*Go to the Story page on the blog to read parts 1-3.
When William was two years old, my parents adopted him. I honestly don’t remember much about it. My parents probably talked to me about it beforehand, but I imagine any conversations they had with me were more of my mom and dad talking about it and me being in the room hearing them talk. But I actually kind of liked William at this point. He and I had formed a bond of sorts. He would come in my room a lot, and we would hang out on my bed and eat Oreos and watch TV. I happened to like watching the Disney Channel (I was a little old for it, I know), and William liked watching it too. My dad was always working, my mom was busy with Michael, and Margaret was off at college. So we, the two middle children, separated by 14ish years in age, bonded over Oreos and Hannah Montana. I think that bond (and the older sister needing to protect her little brother mentality) still remains to this day, for me at least, and I cherish those memories. I think having him there with me made me feel a little less alone. So when my parents decided to adopt him, I wouldn’t say I was excited or happy, but I was at least indifferent.
Michael, on the other hand, I did not like. In fact, I would go as far as to say I hated him. (My feelings are completely different today. I love him very much, and he is one of the coolest people I’ve ever known.) I think much, if not all, of my feelings towards him was actually misplaced anger towards my parents for bringing him into our family and continuing to neglect me. But in addition to that, he was a VERY difficult baby and child. It was like having Christian all over again, except he was also violent. If he got upset, you better hope there wasn’t a large object next to him, because it would be lodged at your face. There was no telling him “no.” And my parents were not good at setting boundaries and disciplining. It was a constant struggle that always ended in him getting his way.
To my parents’ defense, I do have sympathy for foster parents when it comes to discipline. Here you have parents and a child who are essentially strangers now living under the same roof. Many of the children have been abused and/or neglected. You don’t want to be too harsh because they’ve already been through so much, and any wrong move you make will be reported to D.S.S. Plus, they are often having visits with their birth parents, and they have different rules. It’s all just a very confusing dynamic, and it’s not for the faint of heart.
Anyways, the next couple of years were just more of them same. I do distinctly remember being at school one day, and one of my friends told me they heard that my parents had adopted Michael. I think Margaret must have still had younger friends at the same high school as me, and somehow she had told someone about it and word got back to me. And that’s how I found out that Michael was adopted. Not from my parents. From a random friend who apparently found out before I did. In fact, to this day, I don’t think my parents have ever told me that Michael had been adopted. And that, for me, was the last straw. I was still living at home with my parents, and I was still very much dependent on them, but I decided that I wanted as little to do with them as possible.
I graduated from high school and got into my top-choice college, a large public university that was about 3 hours from home. Several of my friends from high school went there as well, so it was largely like a continuation of high school in that regard. We were all in the same sorority, and we added new friends to the original group. I had decided at this point that I wanted to be a radiologist. I knew I wanted to have a prestigious job and make a lot of money (because obviously that’s what’s most important in life), and being the top-paid doctor sounded like the best goal to me.
College was a strange time in my life. I absolutely loved the freedom that came with it. I loved no longer living in the chaos of my childhood home. I loved meeting new people and pretending like I didn’t come from such brokenness. The problem was, well, there were two problems.
First of all, I still had to go back to that brokenness any time I went back home. Strangely, I ended up going back quite often, mostly because I missed our dog. Also, my boyfriend at the time liked going back home (same town) to go to NFL games, and I liked going to the games as well. So we’d drive back together a lot. Whatever chaos I was able to push into the far corners of my mind while at college quickly came to the forefront every time I went back. I couldn’t help but think about how my friends got to come home to clean houses and quiet conversations with their parents, while I was coming home to yelling and messiness and clutter that somehow made it into my old bedroom.
The second problem was that I went from being one of the smartest people in my high school class to being one of thousands of people who were as smart or smarter than me. And I also quickly found out that I didn’t actually know how to study. Apparently, up until now, things had just come easy to me without much effort. I had done my homework and that was all I needed to do to retain information for tests. College was different. My first test was in Chem 101. I actually had already placed out of the class, but I chose to retake it because it had been a while since I learned that material in high school, and I wanted to start off on a good foundation. Well, I got a 68 on that test. For those of you who have forgotten what letter grade that is, it is an F. A big, fat, F.
It had to be a mistake, right? I mean I was Grace the Great. Good Grade Grace. Grace the Ace. (Okay maybe I just called myself those last two names.) My whole identity was built around being smart. Being the best. Being perfect. Even if my family and my home were completely terrible, I could always pride myself on being smart. I quickly came up with a plan, and I studied my be-hind off for the second test. This time I was going to ace it. Grace the Great would be back in no time. And I got that second test back and got a…”An 80???” I cried silently in disbelief. Don’t get me wrong, this was a respectable B minus. Many people would probably kill to get an 80. But this time I had actually TRIED. I studied my very hardest. I had done all that I could do, and I still fell short. Not to mention, when you averaged this grade with my 68, I was still sitting on a solid C. I think this was the first time in my life where I had to face the fact that my best wasn’t good enough. And that’s what I did. I spent about 5 minutes wallowing in self-defeat, accepting my failure, understanding that I could not be perfect. And then I stuffed all of those “icky” feelings way deep down in my gut somewhere, put my shoes on, and marched right down to my professor’s office to explain how unfair this was. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, depending on how you look at it), I’m the least confrontational person you’ll ever meet. I know this comes as a surprise, considering my terrific role models of communication I had in my parents, but speaking up wasn’t my thing. So instead my professor kindly explained what I got wrong and why my 80 was, in fact, actually an 80.
Clearly, she was wrong. She must not have gotten the memo that my nickname was Grace the Great. But, I finally came to the conclusion that I had no choice but to accept this incorrect, unfair grade and try to pull it up before the end of the semester. I studied for hours, even days at a time. I went through the whole text book and did all the practice questions. I got an A on my last test, and by the end of the semester, I finished the course with a B minus. Again, many people would be really proud of themselves for that grade. But for Grace the Great, anything less than an A was unacceptable. And that’s pretty much how my whole college experience went. I’d work really hard, and in the end, I’d get less than perfect. It was devastating. My self-esteem plummeted, and I had lost my whole identity. All of the blood, sweat, and tears I had put in during my grade school years had been in vain. I was left with nothing to show for it. Nothing except for B minuses.
Looking back, and even writing about it now, it all seems so silly. Especially knowing what I know now, I can’t believe how devastated I was to get those “bad” grades. Grades were literally my life. They were my false idol. And that idol had failed me. I felt like my dreams and goals were rapidly slipping away, and that seemed like the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to me. Boy was I wrong…
Until next time!
To God be ALL the Glory!
Love, Grace
