My old therapist moved practices, and that was the end of that. Unfortunate, but it happens. For awhile, I floated around in the in between — managing my anxiety with all of my healthy coping mechanisms (and some unhealthy ones — ice cream much?), dealing with life issues as they came up and generally just treading water. The treading has turned into a slow sink as of late, so I thought it best to try to find someone new.

I sent emails off to a few “big practices” in the area asking if anyone in their network had any experience with birth parents in open adoption and GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder). One big practice didn’t take the time to reply (don’t have an email address if you’re not going to reply, big practices) and one therapist from the other big practice did reply; he does have birth parent in open adoption AND GAD experience. Wow.

But, he’s a dude.

Before I mentally addressed that sticking point, however, I logged onto my health insurance website and pulled up therapists in our area.

All dudes. And the male therapist who took the time to reply (and with whom I had an interesting exchange that lead to adoption niche blogging) is not covered by insurance. Swell.

Sigh.

I have male trust issues as it is, and the fact that I have had any male doctors ever is shocking to me. (When you’re a high risk pregnancy, you take what is available, just so you know.) Add in the fact that the first therapist I tried to see years back — male — told me that this would be “easy to get over” and you’ll see why I’m not quick to jump on the Male Therapist Train.

And so, here I am. Aware that I need some outside help to work through some things — mostly anxiety, some adoption — but unable to find any help. We have adoption agencies promising expectant mothers considering relinquishment that they’ll provide them with post-placement care. They’re also promised that the grief and loss associated with relinquishment will fade over the years. And while that grief and loss might not be as intense, it’s a life-long thing to work through, to make sense of, to feel. Providing “one year” of therapy for a birth parent is simply not enough. Here I am, eight years out, and still needing help to figure out what to do with all of this… and I’m simply unable to locate that help.

It’s frustrating, discouraging and generally not all that great for my anxiety.

(Of note about my slow sink: I’m okay. I’m just aware that it’s time to do something new. Everyone breathe.)

Then, as tears slow and anxiety lowers itself to a more tolerable level, logic sets in. And laughter rolls.

It helps when I realize that my peace is not contingent upon the actions and reactions of others. I know that I’ve been talking a lot about faith as of late. But it’s where I am in my journey. I’d appreciate if you didn’t sue me. I find myself thinking this Prayer for Peace when my resolve toward being peaceful seems to crumble.

O God, you will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are fixed on you; for in returning and rest we shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be our strength.

— Isaiah 26:3; 30:15

I found it awhile back on a page that listed various prayers for peace, including the serenity prayer. That, as well, has taught me that I don’t have control over much more than myself. I am prone to anxiety, genetics working against me. The edgy, tingly part of me doesn’t magically disappear, especially in difficult situations. Yet, reciting that bit and remembering to focus, first and foremost, on God really brings me back to where I need to be. My problems aren’t magically solved. People who hurt me don’t go up in a puff of smoke. My living room is still cluttered with toys as I write this piece.

But…

In quietness and strength. In returning and rest. Perfect peace. Yes please.

Whenever I thought I had mastered one emotional issue, another would need to be figured out and/or something new would come up forcing me back to the beginning of the line. It got frustrating. Tedious. In fact, it even got boring. Doing the same healing work over and over again. And over again. But I kept at it. And I’m glad.

I came across this quote which seems to fit the situation well.

Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you already did.
-Newt Gingrich

I’m not quoting him because of who he is, trust me. I’m using the quote because I have found it to be true. At any point last year, I could have given up. I could have thrown my hands in the air and declared the work impossible. I was absolutely tired of getting to a point where I thought I had found some inner peace and just being thrust into another issue that was so out of my realm of experience that I had no clue with how to proceed. Last year was big and scary in so many ways, only further clouded by PPD.

And yet, I kept putting in the work. I went to therapy. I did my therapy homework. I journaled. I wrote. I went for walks. I yelled at God. I cried with God. I talked to my Husband and not just at my Husband. (What? You’ve never talked at your Husband? Surely you jest.) I worked on counting to ten when I received news that threw me for a loop. I learned not to just look at the shoes someone else was wearing but to really try them on for size. I started really working on thinking before I spoke and really asking myself how my words would affect me if they were being spoken at/to me.

And I ended 2008 on a positive note.

That felt good. I felt pretty darn proud of myself. I am not saying that I am completely free of adoption grief and loss issues. I don’t believe I’ll ever reach that point. I will always miss my daughter. But I’m in a good place. Right?

Then I realized that all the work I did last year was absolutely pointless if I don’t keep up the work this year. I got discouraged for a few hours. It is tiring to always be working toward a good place, a healthy place, a place of peace. It’s especially tiring when you realize that even when and if you find that peace, you’re still going to be without something special to you. In this case, of course, it is the Munchkin. I got kind of down for a little while.

And then I remembered that the negative outlook never achieved anything worth keeping. And I lifted my chin and went back to work.

I’m not saying I won’t occasionally be angry this year. I’m sure that I will. And I’ll be sad on some days. And overwhelmed. And grief-stricken. And caught off guard. But I’ll do so with the realization that I’m doing these things not just for me but for my children, all of them. To be the best birth mother and mother possible, I have to keep working on myself. Ignoring the issues didn’t solve them. Being negative about the issues didn’t solve them. Being positive, even, doesn’t solve them. But the attitude makes all the difference.

That’s how I’m continuing to work through all of this. And it feels good to say so.

Munchkin’s Mom called me two weeks ago. Simply because it had snowed that day and she thought of me. This, in turn, warmed my heart and soul. To be thought of, by anyone, when something as magical as a snowfall occurs is quite possibly one of the biggest honors in life.

Snow, for me, is the most amazing and magical thing in the world aside from birth. It is a birth itself, or, rather, a rebirth. Every winter, the world is washed clean from the brown, ugliness of leaf-stripped autumn. The world once again sparkles with hope and even as adults we find ourselves believing in what might happen as opposed to wallowing in what never does.

The magic of this season comes at a time when I fully feel myself finally exiting the emotional cave of this past year. I’ll knock on wood as I type this sentence but I feel that my last journey with postpartum depression is drawing to an end. I am not always patient with my children but I have so much more patience than six months, four months or even two months ago. My thoughts have returned to their normal anxious state instead of their overly panicked and paranoid state. And, shock of all shocks, I can honestly say that I feel happy right now. I could use a nap, sure, but, folks, I said happy!

Is it merely the season? I think not.

Or…

I hope not.

All the same, over the past year, thanks to my youngest son, I have found myself a new and small group of friends. Three other women/mothers and I all have coffee one morning a week. We talk about our kids, our husbands, politics, stupid people, stupid people in politics, good deals in the area, bad deals in the area, house hunting, ranting, raving and the things that, you know, friends talk about. Shocking, I know.

One of these friends knew about the Munchkin from the very beginning because I met her at the hospital when my youngest son was born. Having access to my medical records in an official meeting type situation, she asked about my first. I explained. And that was that.

The second friend in the group recently found out when googling me after I let it slip that I was an internet celebrity. (Well, I am!) She hadn’t know, previosuly, that I was a freelance writer and she went home from that evening out to look up my Redbook article. I emailed the other friend and let her know that she’d probably get a phone call that evening. She did. But, again, all is well.

But no one has told the third friend. And I can’t find a way to work it into conversation. And I feel lousy for “keeping a secret” from someone that I am supposed to be friend with. And it is creating all kinds of ridiculous anxiety. So much so that I dread going for coffee each week now. Not because of them. They’re such great women! And their kids are adorable! And we really have a great time. But I’m always on edge. Is someone going to mention the Munchkin and the third friend is going to be confused and then feel left out for not knowing? I hate when others’ feelings are hurt because of something I did or did not do.

And so, I sit. Silent. Wondering if it would have been better to have stayed in my shell. Knowing that line of thought is wrong. But still unable to put a voice to who I really am.

Someday I won’t be plagued with all this guilt and anxiety and general self-worthlessness. Right?

The anxiety was trivial. I was deathly afraid that someone mowing their lawn was going to kick up a rock and bonk me in the head. Or, even worse, my son. Or, worse yet, the both of us with two separate rocks. In my rush to leave the house that day, I didn’t even grab my cell phone. As I was dwelling on the fact that I wouldn’t be able to call for help if I was laying in the street, bleeding from a rock wound to the head, I started to panic that I didn’t have my cell phone. What if someone kidnapped us? Worse yet, my Husband had left the house with our older son, so no one was even expecting us back at the house in about an hour and so my absence (from the impending kidnapping, of course) would go unnoticed for HOURS! This went on and on. It was a disastrous line of thought, only stopped by walking through the front door of my home.

I’m now panicking about camping next week and for the ten days following. Will my youngest sleep? Will my older son listen? Will my cell phone work from the upstairs window of our cottage if I need to get in contact with my Husband? What if something happens to my Husband while I’m unreachable? (He was recently injured on a fire and so that’s where that anxiety is coming from… at least that has a logical explanation.) Will I pack enough stuff? Will the public washing machines ruin my diapers? (I’d switch to disposables for the ten days but my son’s skin is so sensitive and disposables are so not absorbent enough.) And then, of course, my BABY brother’s wedding is the very next weekend and I have anxiety about that… and not just the wedding (like how I’m going to nurse my eight month old, discretely, while wearing a strapless gown… great.)… but whether these two have enough money to eat.

And so on.

And then there are adoption issues out the wazoo that I can’t even begin to write about.

I just want to turn my mind off for the evening. But even books that have nothing to do with adoption mention it casually, cavalierly. I can’t escape. For a moment. I’m about to stop reading. Stop talking to people. Stop leaving my house. And stop all together! Too much going on!

I find it so hard to write in a paper journal. Not just physically, but mentally. It is hard to write for “just me.” As a teen, my Mom found one of my (umpteen) journals and used stuff that I had written against me. From that point on, I began censoring what I wrote in my journals. And what’s the point in that? If you can’t be honest in your most personal of spaces, what is the ultimate point? It won’t be a true reflection of what you felt or what you went through so why bother?

And for years, I didn’t bother.

I’ve been writing online for years and years. And years. And some more years. Once truly open with my words, I’ve been censoring more and more. In part because of the unethical actions of my agency, in part because I don’t want the world to see me struggle and in part out of respect for other parties. But censoring gets old. It’s hard to write, even in generalities, when you have to debate every other word, whether it will be used against you in a negative fashion or if you will hurt someone’s feelings. Quite honestly, not many people extend me the same sort of respect for my feelings and it feels cumbersome to always to the same for the world at large and just not those whom are important in my day-to-day life.

But writing in a paper journal again has been a challenge. My voice on the internet, though chronicling my/our journey/journeys, is an outward voice. I often talk to my readers. (HI READERS!) As I said, I do censor myself to some degree online, more and more these days. So when I opened that journal and stared at the blank page, I didn’t know what to write. How honest did I want to be? How deep into the details did I want to get? What if someone read it? Of course, the only persons with actual access to such a thing are my Husband who a) respects my privacy and b ) already knows everything I’ve written (thus far). I mean, my kids could find it but their reading comprehension at this point is rather low unless it’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Beyond that, depending on future contents, thus far I would have no problem sharing my struggles with my children. They need to learn what Mommy has been through in order to learn their own stories.

But it’s so hard to be raw sometimes. The words I use are words I don’t want to think about or admit to the general public. No, not foul words. Big words. Like depression. And anger. And hopelessness. Yeah, didn’t know that, now did you? I should be free to write since it’s just me, my own eyes, reading the pages. But what if I don’t want to know for certain how I feel? As long as it isn’t in black and white on a page, it isn’t real, right? As long as I can’t see the words, the problem doesn’t exist, right?

But it was cathartic all the same. I needed to get a lot of stuff out before my therapy appointment this afternoon or I wasn’t going to be able to say any of it out loud. In fact, I’m not quite sure I can say it all out loud even now and so the journal is taking a trip with me to the therapist’s office this afternoon. She can read it while I nurse the little one and gear up for her myriad of questions. So much has changed since my last appointment. My world is crumbling and I’m trying to claw my way out of the rubble.

I see some spots of light but just can’t reach…

I’m feeling nostalgic. Pent up. I need to get it out, say it out loud. But I don’t know what it is. I can’t find an appropriate song on my iTunes. I can’t find anyone to talk to. I can’t make myself go to bed. Or fold the laundry. Or read. Or catch up on blogs. I’m sitting. Unmoving. I can’t go forward and I sure as heck don’t want to go backwards.

I’m stuck.

I’ve been needing to reschedule an appointment with my therapist for… weeks now. I can’t do it. I don’t want to say the words that need to be said. I don’t want to discuss issues that need to be discussed. I’m tired of words like adoption and health and pregnancy and vasectomy and fertility and infertility and loss and grief and postpartum depression and anxiety and medication and relaxation techniques and loneliness and fear. I want to write happy words into my life and just have them “be.” I don’t want to work at them or try or put any effort into happiness or peace or ease. I just want them to appear.

Alas, just “dumping” this on my blog has given me a smidgen of peace. I feel some sleep creeping into the corner of my eyes. I’m sure one or both boys will be up in less than four hours. And tomorrow there will be a great price to pay. But sometimes you just need to stay up late and let the thoughts run their course… or sleep won’t be beneficial anyway. Sometimes I stay awake just to avoid the dreams.

Go to bed, Munchkin’sFirstMom. Go to bed.

I’m trying to keep things in perspective. I am trying to be real. I am trying to heal. But darn it, I’m having a hard time. And I hate admitting that. I don’t like feeling hopeless and helpless. Obviously, things aren’t hopeless and I, as strong as I am, am not helpless. But sometimes things just feel that way. Early on a gray morning before the coffee has fully kicked in, I can’t see past the fog.

I’m in a funk. I’m sad. I do feel somewhat “pleased” with myself that the funk hasn’t made me angry or selfish or anything of that nature. I’m just simply down in the dumps. If Spring would just get here already, I think that would greatly improve my mood. Somewhat. Maybe.

I hope.

As my loyal readers know, I’ve been in therapy for awhile now to deal with a lot of the anger, guilt, grief, loss and so on that are associated with my placing the Munchkin for adoption. Nothing is “resolved,” of course and I don’t expect to one day wake up and no longer feel the after-effects of relinquishment. What we work on is coping with these issues in an appropriate and healthy manner. It’s been a long, arduous process, of course. As of last year, I still managed to flub up some issues in our relationship as I didn’t appropriately handle my own anxiety or communicate it in the proper manner. After that not-so-awesome experience, my therapist really worked with me on avoiding a similar issue.

I’m gonna buy her a cookie. After I buy myself something nice.

Again, I’m not going to be specific. But, suffice it to say, I received some not-super-awesome news. Instead of flipping out and saying things I would regret, I calmly replied. I put myself in the shoes that were being worn for a moment. I considered what I would do in a similar situation. I considered my own family. I considered what I would want for my children. And I responded in an authentically supportive manner. No anger. Honesty. Open communication.

I feel pretty darn proud of myself. I mean, the situation itself isn’t resolved. I’m praying for it a lot. I’m worried about various aspects. But I trust the people involved in it. And, surprisingly, I now trust myself to deal with it on my end. I didn’t fly off the handle. I didn’t say something I regret. I didn’t make someone feel bad for being human and doing the right thing with a difficult situation. I’m kind of sad, yes, but so are the people involved. So that’s not even unique to me.

I put in a lot of work in therapy this past year. I was wondering if it had helped. I was wondering if I would still become impulsive and say stupid things when presented with hard situations. And the work paid off. Honestly? I have tears in my eyes. Unless you’ve been through similar therapy to work through how you respond to situations that are completely out of control, I don’t know if I can actually explain to you how … great? … it feels to see the result of your hard work.

I’ve always talked about open and honest communication. I’ve always talked about respect. I’ve always talked about considering the other side of the coin before lashing out. But I’ve had my own missteps in that process. It’s hard. I mean, not just in open adoption but any relationship. I’ve even noticed myself calming when my Husband gets called out to a fire on Christmas Eve (yes). Some of this “crap” that I deal with is SIMPLY OUT OF MY CONTROL. And learning to accept it has been difficult. Learning to be gracious about what I cannot change is even harder.

But I’ve made progress. And dang if I don’t think that I deserve to treat myself to something new and nice.

I feel proud. Strong. And hopeful. I had hoped I could make it to this point by the time the next “issue” arose. (Because issues will arise, folks. Can’t avoid them.) And I’m hopeful that I’ll just continue to make progress by the time the next issue arises. Progress. It’s good food.

(Thank you for putting up with a vague post!)