01

A Word on Grief

I had forgotten how deeply grief cuts. I had forgotten how one compounds another. I had forgotten how grief sometimes feels immobilizing and then, in the same breath, makes you want to take on the world, change how things work or how things are perceived.

It’s been one month since Grandpa died. Today I’m calling the florist and rescheduling the rest of our week as my husband’s Uncle died yesterday morning. Most of the time I’m on a sort of auto-pilot, unaware of my surroundings or, at the very least, protecting myself from the totality of it all. I allowed myself one breakdown yesterday, late in the morning, after the initial shock had worn off. I threw the shock guard back up; feeling fully is too raw right now. I don’t really want to feel right now. I need the auto-pilot function. The denial stage of grief exists for a reason.

All of this makes me think about my grieving process regarding Munchkin’s placement. I was in the denial, auto-pilot function for quite some time. Speaking for myself and not all birth mothers, I simply needed to be there for awhile. There were times when I did take that shock guard down, allowed myself to cry or rant or generally fall apart but, really, I stayed in a bubble that year. If I hadn’t attended her first birthday party, I might have stayed there for a longer period of time. I’m glad I did. The process of feeling, sorting through everything and finding my own path let me live a much fuller life than I lived that first year.

I was discussing adoption grief and death grief with another person attached to adoption the other day. She asked me, “Are they similar?” My answer is that I simply don’t know and I really can’t compare. I hadn’t yet experienced true death grief prior to placing and it’s been six and a half years since I first felt the tidal wave of grief associated with relinquishment. I know that the loss I felt after I placed the Munchkin was all-consuming. There were days when I didn’t eat, drink or really move. I had awful thoughts of harming myself when I allowed myself to peek outside the heavy cloak of denial. But years have passed regarding that grief in my life. The physical feeling of the panic that accompanies grief has faded. I don’t feel it twist my stomach. It doesn’t keep me up at night any longer. It is a part of my life. The newer grief of these recent losses does twist my stomach. I can’t sleep. I have no appetite. The physical aspects of grief are here, eating at me even though I’m trying to ignore their presence.

The problem with me, in my situation, comparing adoption and death grief is that, blessedly, I get to see the Munchkin. I will never see my Grandpa again. They are apples and oranges. I’m trying to find two vastly different things that weigh so much on the human heart and mind to compare them to and, really, I can’t. They are their own unique fruits of comparison. I can only say that, for me, the similarities and differences are too hard to compare and contrast with so much time having gone by. I can say that each has affected me on a core level. I have been changed by both experiences.

Someday I hope that my stomach stops twisting and turning and that I can sleep properly. For now, I am reliving the stages of grief, seemingly over and over. I accept that this is what needs to happen right now. Mostly.

2

Telling, Briefly

As I continue to branch out and do new things, I continue to meet new people. As I continue to do more things, my schedule gets kind of hectic. As my schedule gets more hectic, I care less about who knows what and how I’m supposed to be ashamed, according to society, about the existence of my daughter.

Over lunch the other day, I mentioned that I’d be in Columbus on Thursday working on the book I’m writing with Dawn. My lunch mate had not yet heard of my book and asked the topic. I paused, ever so briefly, before launching into the “I relinquished my firstborn for adoption and Dawn is an adoptive mother and, really, our timelines are quite similar, so, at first we were going to write a memoir but the industry is saturated, so we changed to a book that discusses how openness is changing the adoption world for the good and the not-so-grand.” Yes, that is a run-on sentence but it’s how I talk when I’m nervous. That was likely said all in one breath while fiddling with my silverware and avoiding eye contact. I looked up afterward and she said, “That sounds interesting.” Without sarcasm or irony or judgment. She didn’t probe or ask questions about my adoption journey. We just continued on with conversation.

I’m left wondering why I fear the process of telling my story to new people so much. I know the answer, of course, is because some people are truly judgmental. There’s still a stigma and a shame attached to what I have done, the path I have walked. More over, even some of my sisters in birth motherhood claim that I should be private and selective in who I tell, verging on the line of secretive.

I’m not good at secrets, people. Especially my own.

I don’t want to wear a “HEY! I’M A BIRTH MOTHER” shirt. I don’t think it’s the first thing that I need to tell people about myself. It’s not the biggest hat I wear but it is an important part of who I am and why I have done certain things in and with my life. Like mothering in general, really, it shapes future decisions. While I’d like new people to know that I’m a writer, a photographer, a wife and a mother, I am seeing less of a problem with them also knowing that I’m a birth mother.

Then again, my oldest son will hit elementary school in a year and a half and my tune may very well change. There are small-minded individuals everywhere, of course, and I have found that no one is as judgmental as a mom (or group of moms) who wants to be accepted. Which seems counterproductive, don’t you think? The last time I shared my birth mother role with a group of mom’s at a playgroup, I was shortly thereafter shunned. I’m not looking forward to dealing with that again… ever again. But, whatever the case, this recent experience has been a confidence booster that I think I needed.

2

Some Thoughts on Sharing, Over-Sharing and The Like

As I make my way back into the groove of blogging and working after the loss of my grandfather, I’m thinking a lot about a question I asked over on BlogHer just yesterday. Basically, the question was:

How much do you share regarding your adoption story? How much is too much?

After I asked that, D let me know that she has purchased a domain and is going to blog! I will not link you as of yet. I will wait for her to find her comfort level and out herself. That said, it was perfect timing for both this question and the one I plan on asking next!

I’ve learned a lot about what is mine to share and what is D’s to share… and what will be Munchkin’s to share. I have learned these boundaries by making mistakes. I like to learn the hard way. I have over-shared at times though D has really only called me out on it once. I fixed it and we got past it, like most of our blips and bloops on our adoption journey.

I think that’s what makes adoption blogging so difficult.

I can write just about anything about the family that lives under my roof. I’m participating in the making of these stories. As long as I am not putting my husband’s job in jeopardy, I am pretty much free to share what I please. I do censor myself in some ways, refusing to share anything about our sexual relationship not really because I’m a prude but because my husband’s grandparents read our blog. (There’s an ick factor there when it comes to sex, no?) Again, while I may share about fires, I don’t share details of the fire itself and more often share about what I experienced, at home, while he was off fighting. When I share about the kids, I don’t post pictures of naked tushies or anything overly embarrassing. As Dawn said in her comment to the question, I will always give the family veto power.

But it works differently in adoption.

It’s not always possible to share only my story. Our stories, as they pertain to adoption, get tangled together in different ways. We also view things differently, react to them differently and experience them on different levels and in different ways. I think I mostly make that clear in my writing but I suppose that can get lost in translation.

I rarely write about the Munchkin herself here, sans-really cute stories of our conversations or the occasional discussion of something she is experiencing. Why? I don’t want to step on D’s toes. The truth is that when it comes down to it, she’s the mommy and should therefore be the mommyblogger. You know? I tend to back off in that area, moreso than I used to do. As Shannon pointed out, I’m more apt to talk about theory and ethics and what not rather than the ins and outs of our story. Or my own healing process which still has to be edited at times. It’s difficult, this adoption blogging.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the lines in the sand of this topic shift from time to time. During difficult times, I find it safer, for all, if I hold back a little. During times of ease, I find that it’s a bit more acceptable to go back and rehash some things (respectfully) or share a little more about current stuff. Shifting shifting. It’s probably more about learning what and when than about a hard and fast rule. At least for me. For us.