The Squeaking Gate

"In loving memory of our child
So innocent, eyes open wide
I felt so empty as I cried
Like part of me had died"
Scene Five: Through Her Eyes,
Scenes from a Memory, Dream Theater

The thing about being stressed like I am is that while the external factors distract me from focusing on adoption trauma they also weaken  my ability to avoid it. 

Does that make sense?

What I mean is that when I am not totally overloaded with work, housing, parenting, schooling and projects, I have the strength to keep adoption pain at bay. My energy goes there and I can contain the beast.

When I am overloaded with life issues, my ability to fend off the beast is diminished. My emotional immune system is challenged.  I realize that I put an incredible amount of energy into managing my adoption pain, controlling it, containing it, not allowing it to overwhelm me.

A friend, a dear friend, is doing a 3D multimedia art piece on Primal Wound. She is a student at the Philadelphia Art Institute and has called on me to consult.  I am visiting Philly in two weeks and will discuss her project with her.

Today, while checking email, she shares more of her project and it reminds me for some reason of Ann Fesslers "Everlasting" installations. I ask my friend if she is familiar with it. She wasn’t. I send her the link.

After sending the link, I poke around there myself for the millionth time, read the mothers statements (gasping for air as I read them) and I start to hear a squeaking noise.  I look around my home office. Daughtry is playing on iTunes. What is that squeaking noise?

Oh, gosh, help. It is the flood gates. The gates of the emotional adoption hell are opening. I am challenged, weakened by my busy life, fight, fight, back, no. I cannot deal with this now. I have rooms to stage, children to feed. Please, please, go away.

I surf away from Ann’s page. My chest is tight, the right side of my heart hurts, my breathing is shallow.

And so I sit here and write … and cry.

It may be time for some more aggressive therapy. I cannot deal with this anymore. I am pondering medications again. Anxiety, depression, stress, the tears at any moment just don’t work well in a corporate environment, you know?

"Hey, Mr. AVP, let me tell you why your employee engagement scores are….oh, wait, can  I get back to you? I have to go collapse in the ladies room and cry for a while?  Mkay, thanks."

Adoptees who wonder why their mothers deny contact?

Its my life they are afraid of.  They can live in denial and avoidance or they can walk into the fire with me. The choose the safety of denial. I walk into the fire like some sort of masochistic crazy woman.

Who is to say who is wrong?

4 Thoughts.

  1. OH SO familiar with the distract and reflect, bait and switch, of keeping myself so busy that I don’t have time or inclination to focus on you-know-what. I’m eleven years in reunion, and that initial loss still won’t go away, not completely.
    Sending BIG HUGS to you.

  2. No one’s wrong, everyone is trying to make sense of something that just isn’t sensible.
    Wish I had some words to help or a magic wand to put it all right. But I don’t, so I’ll send a great big (((((hug))))).

  3. Suz: Anxiety meds! You dont need that! You are a functioning human with a full life. Maybe some time out.
    Maybe some chicken soup?
    I have a friend, we had lunch, she cries I listen. I say a few words I dont hear from her. I call and she says “I dont need a mother, I need a friend” I conclude she is exactly where she wants to be. She is nested in the comfort of how she handles things.
    I say get out of those dirty diapers if the pain hurts so bad what do we do? Denial and avoidance by all means. Your daughter! What would she do if you put yourself in her face? I dont think anyone should be in pain like this. The meds will not take this away, So onward soldier! How do you make someone listen? We all have our ways, dont we?
    p.s. I miss your pics of the happy face in the corner. Its a genuine loving face and it beholds the beautiful writing of a gifted gal.

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