I'm not done with my adoption. It is not done with me.
I feel like the Grinch baby.
I know that sounds severe but seeing that stupid Ron Howard "Grinch" movie - when that wailing, hideous baby is thrown off the bridge - it punctured my heart. All those stories and fables when the baby is discarded cause it's ugly and freakish is the starkest, realest feeling I can communicate to you through mass media about how my adoption/abandonment feels.
It's a fairly common story. A baby abandoned cause it's ugly and freakish. Think Benjamin Button. Girls in China.
This is raw. This is not good writing. but this is how i feel. Dressing it up feels disingenuous.
She gave up. That's the thing. I have nothing but sympathy for all moms and dads who make tough decisions. I know how life works. I know it's not simple.
But the first person to see me, the first person to know me, the one the good Lord entrusted me to, she decided to take a pass.
Take a pass on knowing me. Take a pass on my being worth the effort. Take a pass on spending her life with me. Even though she bore me, life would be better without me.
Let's just say it was a lot of judgment right from the get go.
Look at me mother and you'll think:
that's too much work
that's too hard
that's too tough a challenge.
Look at my baby face and you'll think:
she's NOT WHAT WAS INTENDED.
Insert my entire life post-adoption which I'm labeling simply STRUGGLE TO BE HERE.
No one should enter this world without a guide.
Imagining being born to the mother who rejected me feels like entering the world through something rough and cold rather than warm and viscous. Birthing my own babies, and feeling the immensely gratifying experience of visceral love as well as the honor and privilege of being responsible for their very lives, has been healing.
But I now know how it should feel, and how it could NOT have felt to her for her to give me up. And again I know parents who give their children up for adoption can and most often do love them. Of course. I just get a distinct feeling that that was not the case for me.
This is my pain. Quite unique. Cloutish freak.
Your pain is not so far from mine.
We all face some kind of rejection. We all must build our own altars to love. There is no birth without strain. There is no growth without pain.
Mine has left me with this complete fear of being all alone and the gravelly knowledge that that is exactly what I am.
The demons circle like a campfire ghosts. I swing my stick into the darkness and hope to make contact. Knock a big one down. Drag it into the light.
I know my pain is different but it's the same.
You wanna be gotten.
You wanna be loved.
You wanna have a place to truly call home.
you wanna feel safe.
I wasn't an ugly baby. I wasn't a disabled baby. Still something in me resonated: I was a bad fit.
How do you re-write a story for someone who cannot read? How do you talk to someone who is pre-verbal? How do you repair such a tiny heart?
But they do get repaired don't they? My lovely friends MS and DS are having their baby's heart operated on next month. They grow strong oxen children and their darling son will be fine...better even.
Hearts, even tiny ones, heal.
My injuries are so tiny but so early that they pierce everything. They're the root tap that leads to the fine veins that pumps blood into every ventricle, every artery. Even those that lead to something good.
I know it's dramatic. But if feels dramatic. It feels like an abandoned basket on a lonely, windswept farmhouse step. It feels like an abandoned basket on a dark and wet cement townhouse stair. It feels like being tossed into a cold, rushing river.
It feels like a reedy Nile River marsh too. Like baby Moses...maybe my mother took care of me for those six months under extreme conditions, she hid me from harm and then gently set that basket where she knew the Pharaoh princess would find it.
maybe I was saved for better things...