“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition” – Graham Greene
So, I have been trying to take an adoption vacation. I wanted to go away in my mind and focus on all the pretty things in my life. My fiance, my fabulous boys, my soon to be new and equally fabulous house.
I wanted to think about Waverly curtains and Klimt artwork and oxblood colored walls in my family room. I wanted to shop for pool and patio decor for the in-ground pool and wander through a sporting good store for a new basketball hoop and board. I wanted to investigate pavers for the patio I envision. I want to look for horseshoe pit stakes for the slightly buried, but soon to be uncovered, pits in our yard. I wanted to shop for leather couches for the TV room and pottery barn type kitchen farm tables for the dining room. I wanted to buy graph paper and do a space plan. I wanted to think about paint colors for the master bedroom and I wanted to debate reasons why it is NOT a good idea for my 12 year old son to paint a wall in his room the color black.
And I wanted to do all of this while pretending that I am not one of the many victims torched by the American adoption industry. I wanted to frolic around my .75 acres of grassy lawn, Japanese maple and and weeping cherry trees and pretend for at least a few months that it doesn’t bother me that I am four years into reunion with a child that wants nothing to do with me. I want to weed the flower beds and smile when I think about the emails that go unanswered. I want to giggle with joy when I am asked by my son why his sister did not thank us for the birthday donation we made in her name. I want to roll down the front hill of our property with my six year old and scream in delight at the massive numbers of babies separated from their mothers. I wanted stick my leg through the tire swing that hangs on the large tree in the back yard, let my multicolored red hair fall down my back and sing a happy song of adoption separation. I wanted to fool myself into believing it was all good. I wanted to ingest adoption koolaid by the tank full with the hopes that drinking adoption koolaid would give me a break.
I wanted to pretend.
I want to be avoidant.
I want to deny who and what I am and what was done to me and my child.
I wanted to act like those adoptees who say the woman that parented them are their REAL and only mother.
I wanted to breathe like mothers who found the ability to erase their surrendered children from their minds and act as if their subsequent children are their real and only children.
I wanted to sleep like an adoptive parent who believes that separating mother and child is a good thing for after all, babies are blank slates and mommies can be replaced.
I wanted to conduct business like a baby broker who finds nothing wrong with selling babies to the highest bidder.
I wanted to be…not me.
I just wanted to focus, for a few months on all the good stuff and not have the icky stuff invade every waking moment.
And I cannot seem to do it.
At my fiances sons high school graduation ceremony, I choke up because I am reminded that a year ago my daughter was graduating from college.
At a family party over the weekend where I discuss an upcoming trip to Prague with family members, I have to turn away for it reminds me that my daughter once studied in Prague.
As I lay in my bed with my fiance talking about the effect of divorce on children and how difficult it is to blend families after divorce, I am reminded of how reunion brings about blended families (or should).
As I color my hair a bolder, brighter, odder shade of red I find myself wondering what color red my daughter is currently sporting.
As I am wander through Urban Outfitters in North Hampton, Mass in search of a necklace I have coveted for months, I am reminded of UO shoes my daughter purchased and the photo of same she posted on her tumblr.
As I plan a trip to Brooklyn to take photos of my mothers childhood haunts, I feel fear that I may run into my daughter that also lives in Brooklyn. After all, that kind of cosmic shit has happened to me before. I find myself thankful the weather was unpredictable and I did not go to the Brooklyn.
As I pick my sons up from their fathers home over the weekend, and my thin youngest son runs toward me, images of his equally thin sister flash over him and I see her, not him.
And I push the thoughts away. I tell them they are not welcome.
I smile again. I pretend I am a normal mother, fiance, woman. I am not a mother without her first born child. I am not a mother whose child was taught she did not exist and does not matter. I am not a women traumatized by adoption. I smile and frolic some more.
And all the while I know I am fooling myself. All the while I know how much difficulty I have with people who deny and avoid reality. All the while I reflect on what a harsh realist I am known to be, the realist I am proud to be.
And I become angry at myself.
And I read adoption related tweets, and I am even angrier. I find myself much less tolerant of the varying views. I find I want to scream at the 40 something yo adoptee who is clueless to her mothers pain and reality and simultaneously I want to choke and bitch slap the mother that is rejecting her child. And dont get me started on entitled prospective adopters who feel that having a baby doesnt make you a mother. (What does it make you then? A birther? An incubator?) and that only wealthy people can raise children properly. As if money guarantees parenting ability.
And my anger frightens me.
There seems to be some connection.
My avoidance and my anger makes me think that I must keep on blogging if only for anger management purposes, for therapy, for some semblance of sanity.
The written word is my prozac.
And so I write.