The Wrong Order

"Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way; she better
understands her own affairs than we."  ~Michel de Montaigne, translated

I believe there is a natural order to the world.

Basic, simple, fundamentals that our world is based on.

Sunlight makes plants grow.

Plants produce oxygen.

We breathe.

The moon controls the tides.

Drop something and gravity will make it fall to the ground.

Children are conceived and are meant to be with their mothers and not strangers.

Sure we can disrupt the natural order of things but we do so with some degree of risk.

I believe this constant ache I feel, this longing, this loss for the past 22 years is the natural orders attempt to restore what man (and woman) broke. 

It is not natural for a child to be given away by his or her mother.

It is not natural for a child to be raised among strangers who deny who they are and where they came from.

Its unnatural.

I visualize my life on a straight line.

I was living life on that line and then I became pregnant.  Natural order would dictate that my child would be raised by me. That she would live with me. Had she done so, my life line would have continued in the order that it was intended.

But the laws of man and someones god interfered with the laws of nature and split that path.

While a bend in the road may not be the end of the road, it was indeed the end, according to mans law, of my motherhood.

But nature felt otherwise. I always was her mother. I always felt like her mother. Yet I was not.  I lived on that bend, that curvy road, for 22 years. And then I found her.

And the line came back to its original place. 

But there is still a fluctuation, a gap, missing natural material. Natural order wants that back. Natural order wants to restore the order.

My body, my mind, nature, still demands me to be my child’s mother yet I am not. I could not be. She doesn’t view me that way. The laws of man say I am not.

I have her back yet I dont and still the natural order continues to bang on the door of my heart.

If I were to draw a picture (and I am a terrible artist especially with the Paint program) it would look like this. (Click on picture for larger version)


See that straight line at the bottom?  That is my life, then it curves and that is the period of time I am without my child.

Then I find her and the line is restored but there are voids on the original path. Some of the original path was lived, some was not.  And between the path and the curved line is static, blackness, energy, agitation. Nature attempting to pull me back to the path.

Nature never letting me forget that I am living the wrong life, an unnatural life.

Odd but thats my explanation.

A force greater than myself, greater than what my conscious mind can understand is supremely pissed off that I gave away my daughter.

I broker the natural order.

Even more peculiar, now that I draw that silly sketch, is that it resembles a pregnant stomach?

I know I can never get those lost, curved years back, I can never appease the powers that be. I can never be the mother I should have been.

What can I possibly do?

5 Thoughts.

  1. I understand that longing too – those years belonged to us, not to the stranger that took them away from us, refusing to share even a shred of time from our children’s childhood – I really feel that it is selfish to cut us out so completely and utterly to the point of non-existence.

  2. I wrote a long comment and then the system wouldn’t let me post it I guess because I am on a different computer so this is a test.

  3. Here is the real one as best I can recall.
    It is funny you are quoting de Montaigne because I was just given a book of his essays for my birthday.
    Having expectations meet reality is a key issue in adoption reunion. It is really hard for us because when we enter into a reunion we think we will have our child back and we will but not in the sense we want and hope.
    Just as we bring our history of feelings to a reunion so do they and as ours are feelings of loss, betrayal, injustice, etc. so they have strong emotions too about their adoptive family experience whatever that might be.
    I sometimes worry about sharing all of this with them because they are the only ones who have no responsibility whatsoever for what happened. I don’t think any of us can understand what it is like to be adopted unless we were ourselves.
    When I met my son all I wanted to do was hold him. I felt a great sense of peace the first night he spent under my roof.
    If you never have, listen to “Song of Bernadette” by Leonard Cohen on Jennifer Warrens (Sp?) “Famous Blue Raincoat” CD. But be warned – have the kleenex close at hand, that song says it all in a very beautiful way.

  4. That line doesn’t necessarily straighten out after reunion. As you know. The life-us interruptus goes on and on…

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