Betrayal is the only truth that ever sticks – Arthur Miller
Over the past few months, I have been approached on a number of fronts to contribute articles to known adoption magazines, anthologies to be published, websites or other channels.
In nearly all cases, I have declined. I opted out of the Origins video shoot. I put off responding to an editor from a well known adoption magazine regarding an article I was asked to contribute to. Recently several friends approached me regarding an anthology that is being published.
It should be no surprise that my hesitation to follow through on any of these opportunities is my daughter, her view of me, my work and writing and also the state of our reunion.
I still have hopes that some day she will want to know me. Someday she will care that she has two brothers that want to know her. Someday she will sit down and share coffee with me in some quiet funky coffee shop. Someday she might be emotionally strong enough to tell me how much adoption sucks and how it complicated her life and how angry she is at me for being too weak to fight the forces that that lead to her being surrendered to a baby broker. I hope for all this and more.
And while I am hoping for this I am still trying to live my life without her, trying to accept that she may never want to know me and while I sit hoping I might be wasting very valuable time that could be used elsewhere, as in writing for any number of publications that have approached me.
I am simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Being a Gemini, one might think I could handle the intense duality. Yet I cannot. I am literally frozen.
Do I or don't I?
In discussing this recently with a friend, she suggested I consider writing under a pseudonym.
At first, I thought "WHOA! What a great idea!". I could write and my daughter would never know it was me that was writing. I could preserve whatever chances I might have of truly reuniting with her and also write.
And then, something icky crawled up inside me and I found the idea quite unappealing.
A pseudonym feels oddly like, oh, I don't know, being put back in the barfmother closet. It feels like hiding. It feels like I am ashamed to be who I am. It feels like I am once again catering to the needs of others and ignoring my own. It feels like I would be selling my soul again to the closed adoption devil. It feels like this time I would be sending myself away to a maternity home and picking a different name or mother label for myself.
It feels like a betrayal of self.
Do I or don't I?