That’s why I never told anyone when I had thoughts about driving into threes.

I was afraid of that possibility, of going back to some place like that. I’ll still occasionally have a fleeting memory and will do almost anything to forget it. Immediately. And I was afraid of losing my sons if I admitted my thoughts, my fears, the true extent of my anxiety. I found myself nodding along with the article, sympathizing with Bruno’s story.

A quote from the article lodged somewhere in my throat:

“I’ve had women come in here for a session and have said, ‘All I want you to do is give me the name of an adoption agency, because there’s got to be a better mother out there for this baby than me,’” she says.

I blinked back tears.

There were nights after our older son was born, when he was crying and I couldn’t figure out how to make him stop, that I wondered if we had made a horrible mistake. If I was somehow inherently flawed, if I would never be a good enough mother. I had thought that I had worked through all of my post-relinquishment issues, but the realities of motherhood coupled with sleep-deprivation threw me right back into a swirling pit of self-doubt.

“I couldn’t do it then, what makes me think I can do it now? A husband? A stable income? Stuff? What are those things if I can’t simply be a mother? What if there’s just something in me that will never get motherhood?”

Round and round I would go. Daytime. Nighttime. All day. Everyday. Whether he was crying or not. I was a failure. Plain and simple.

I was at least self aware enough to get myself into therapy and, thankfully, she had some understanding about what postpartum depression was, how to handle it and how the grief and loss associated with relinquishment might exacerbate the issues at hand. I will be forever grateful for her insight, her patience and her ability to help me get outside of my own head.

I still worry, of course, that I can’t be honest about anything I’m thinking or feeling or dealing with at any given time. It’s not as if I feel like a perfect parent on any given day. I still struggle with that nagging self-doubt. I still wonder if I’ll ever be good enough. I still pray that somehow I’ll be able to let go of it all and just be their mom. I still worry that if I step out of line, at all, I won’t be given a fair chance because — after all — I’m one of those women who gave up a baby. I was less than, a risk, once before, so why wouldn’t I be now?

Logically, I see the flaw in these thoughts, especially the last train. But others — sometimes the ones that count the most — don’t see it differently than my illogical thought process. I wish they would and maybe someday they will, but for now that fear is a partial reality.

It is my dream, of course, that someday a clinic (or, let’s get big and say clinics — plural) will exist for mothers and fathers who have relinquished their children. For whatever reason. In whatever circumstance. We want to understand how perinatal mood disorders alter a mother’s ability to function. I want people to understand how relinquishment and (for the mothers, at least) perinatal mood disorders might also have an effect on their daily function. Forever. I know the postpartum depression clinics are needed. I see this as a move in the right direction. But I can only hope that someday the mothers who have relinquished will also be seen as worthy of mental health care.

Until then, I write in hopes that some mother won’t feel as crazy and as alone as I did.

For more about the clinic, hit up Postpartum Progress’s post on the matter.

Silence is medication for sorrow. ~Arab Proverb

And to be sad.

And that’s okay.

Now don’t think that there hasn’t been any talking. In fact, my oldest son has been non-stop talking about his sister which, in turn, causes his younger brother to hit me with some whammies. I put on my brave face and answer their questions, encourage their thoughts and just generally let them deal with it all out loud. I asked my husband if we’re going to have to answer these questions forever. He just nodded. He’s right.

I think, however, I’m coming out the other side of this particular post-visit depression tunnel. It helps that I’ve been crazy busy with work. And life (t-ball, birthdays, etc). I still have a few things that I need to work out and eventually say out loud. I feel like my silent time let me sort through things that didn’t even make sense. I feel stronger now.

Heavenly.

I looked out the window briefly, longing to finish up some work and get outside. It’s gorgeous today. My eyes slid from the autumnal color splash of outdoors to one of the frames sitting on the windowsill. Munchkin’s one-year-old eyes looked back at me. The photo is of me sitting on Dee’s couch, holding a very tired, post-first-birthday-party Munchkin in my arms. You can only see my profile; I am not looking at the camera. The Munchkin, clutching onto my arm, is staring straight at the camera, however. Every time I look at that picture, I can feel every emotion I felt that day.

So, I took a breath and looked away.

And then Pandora threw “My Immortal” on my speakers. And I started to cry.

How is it that all these years later, little moments will still dissolve me? I was feeling on top of my world for a moment there and, bam, I was thrust back to reality. Grief is part of my reality, however happy a life I am living. I’ve been struggling with that balance as of late, tired of people telling me what to feel, when and how. But my truth is that the tears do still fall. I doubt that they will ever stop falling all together.

I think today is a great day for a fall walk. After I finish working… while Munchkin watches me.

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.

I hugged my boys a little tighter that day. I wrote about it, including some love for the Munchkin.

But, boy, have the Munchkin and the concept of loss been weighing heavy on my heart for the past few days. When discussing the loss of Maddie with other bloggers and friends, the general consensus is that no one can imagine this kind of loss. Furthermore, no one wants to imagine this loss. Myself included.

I know I write a lot about loss. It’s a part of my life. It’s part of my reality. I can’t really escape it. But at the end of the day? My daughter is alive. She is thriving. She is awesome. She is hilarious. She is talented. And she loves me. At the end of the day, my loss isn’t complete. I know where my daughter is. I can call her Mom and ask to speak to her if I so desire. I can drive seven-ish hours and give her a hug if it comes down to it. I can watch her grow into the wonderful woman I know that she will be.

And that kind of puts some things in perspective, doesn’t it?

Of course, I speak from the view of a birth mother in open adoption. I can’t and won’t attempt to speak for my sisters who endure the horrors and fears of closed adoptions. Much like this recent loss of a beautiful little girl, I can’t imagine living the life of a closed adoption birth mother. More over, I don’t want to imagine it.

I’m not saying that I don’t miss my daughter. I am not saying that I don’t grieve over the things, memories and relationship that was lost. But perspective. Perspective.

I know that we have difficulties of our own in open adoption. I’ve been through a lot in the past few years. Our story has changed. Our lives have changed. But, in the end, the point is that the Munchkin has been present for all of those changes. She’s here, on Earth, with us.

And for that, I am forever grateful.

[Our blogs will be going purple for Maddie on Tuesday. Let me know if you need help doing so as well. If you would like to donate to the family, please consider donating to the PayPal account set up for the family. As of writing this, they have $7000 to cover for the services to be held on Tuesday. Another option is the fundraising efforts for March of Dimes. To boot, our family is releasing purple balloons tomorrow. RememberMaddie.com is up and down but the remembering of Maddie lives on. A thorough write-up of efforts can be found here.]

And that’s where I get confused.

The grieving I have done in my life, both with regard to placement and miscarriage, brings me to where I am today. It has made me who I am today: someone a bit more compassionate for those who have been hurt, wronged and generally stepped upon by society and a little less patient with the unethical, immoral nastiness of our world. Someone who continually works on finding happiness and peace but is told that she’s doing it wrong. Someone who wants the world for her children but acknowledges that she only plays a small part in that journey toward the world. Someone who can acknowledge grief … who, years back, wouldn’t for fear of hurting others.

It’s really only at this time of the year that I allow myself to miss the daughter that we lost to miscarriage. Part of me knows it’s not that healthy to deny the grief and part of me knows it is not healthy to dwell in the grief. I’ve tried to find a happy medium with this particular topic but, well, I don’t even have time for grief on some days.

But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like… what life would now be like with a two year old running amok instead of a fifteen month old. I try not to dwell on whether or not he would be here or not. I try to tell myself that children who were meant to be in our lives will be in our lives. But then I get emotional about the Munchkin. But then I tell myself that she was meant to be here… and she IS in my life in some way…

and the grief…

it mixes together. One to the other, one from the other. And I don’t know what to feel or how to express it.

And so, for two weeks in February, I’m stunted to silence as I imagine what might of been and give thanks for what it is instead.

You can imagine that the hair on my neck rose as I typed a retort something along the lines of, “Who are you to judge how she grieves?” Something dismissive along the lines of “I can have an opinon” was written back and I decided to let it drop. Mainly because I knew it would go nowhere. Those with balls enough to judge how someone grieves aren’t going to see an argument in which I point out how callous such a thing really is so I saved my breath.

It’s an especially touchy subject as we near the end of February.

The child that we miscarried would be turning two on February 20th. Two years ago, I was finally able to let go of some of the guilt and make the conscious effort to try to conceive the child who is currently cutting his upper molars. Last year, I was able to buy a little cake acknowledging how she changed my life simply by existing for such a short time. This year, I had been planning on getting some cupcakes and acknowledging her yet again.

But apparently I’m doing it wrong.

I hate that. I really, really hate that. What? When other people judge the way other people grieve. And I’m not talking solely about death. I’m also talking about how tired I am of how birth parents are told that they’ll just “magically” “get over” the pain at some point. And, if they don’t, they’re unstable or damaged or aren’t grateful enough for the things in their life. And when they voice their grief, necessary for the process of healing, they are told to be silent because they’re not doing anyone any good. You know, except themselves.

When are we as a society going to accept that grieving is not a bad thing. Furthermore, why is celebrating someone’s life a bad thing when it comes to grieving? When I bought cupcakes for the family on the Munchkin’s birthday, was that somehow wrong? Should I have instead spent time moping around because I couldn’t be with her on her birthday again? Should I have sat at home instead of singing in my Christmas concert? While a few tears were shed, as always, I think this was the healthiest birthday of hers that I have experience (and I have hopes that next year will be even better but also have enough of a realist side to note that it could be difficult as well). Celebrating her life instead of mourning the lack of presence in my life felt pretty darn awesome. Knowing that this widow was likely doing the same thing makes me angry on her behalf that her grieving process has been called “odd” or in any way judged in a negative light.

I’m sensitive to grief right now. I admit that. Right now I’m really deep in the consideration of how my grief has to balance my gratefulness. The process of finding that balance will be something I explore later this week. But I just want to say this out loud: those that can’t allow room for others to grieve will someday be forced to remember their judgment. And, being through what I have, that doesn’t give me a sense of happiness. It only breaks my heart even more to know that grief and the process of grieving are things that society won’t ever escape or evolve away from; they are with us forever.

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.

Well, I ran from him
in all kinds of ways
Guess it was his turn this time.

Munchkin’s birth father and I used to listen to Tori Amos. Frequently. While we were dating, while we were friends and leading up to her conception. We bonded over lyrics. On a mix CD that he made for me, Tori sang to me. I heard the romance in the words back in those days. While pregnant with the Munchkin, I heard the anger in those words. And now, years later, I hear something different.

On April 24, 2003, I packed everything of mine that would fit into my Mercury Topaz. It was a crazy mess of clothes, computer parts, coffee cups and bowls. I left behind things that I would later ask for and would never be delivered: an anthology of William Carlos Williams poems, my glasses, a jacket from college. I cut my losses and left before he arrived home from work. A housemate watched me load my things but didn’t ask questions. I don’t know if he knew I was pregnant but he knew better than to ask.

I drove off into dusk, night quickly catching up with me as I sped out of New Jersey. Through my tears, I almost missed a turn and would have been lost for eons. I made it out. And drove for hours upon hours, arriving on my best friend’s doorstep. She welcomed me in with a hug and we slept in her bed until the following morning. My 22nd birthday dawned finding me alone, homeless and pregnant.

Phone calls were made back and forth that day as I learned he told my Mother only half-truths and I had to deliver the news of the pregnancy to my Mom over the phone. Not exactly what I had planned for my birthday celebration. When I worked up the nerve to talk to him that evening, he told me that he had got on his motorcycle and sped off for the state line when he got home from work that night, trying to find me. Apparently our housemate hadn’t told him how much of a lead I had on him. I would have been well into Pennsylvania by that time. I pictured him on that big red monster, cursing me and my stubbornness as he chased me across the black night, searching for any hope that I was still around, that I hadn’t run. That this wasn’t real. Maybe praying to wake up.

I learned recently that once he finishes his masters, he’s moving back to England. I’ve been sitting on this information for awhile. It hit me when he told me that day on the phone but I pushed it away. I’ve seen him once since he went to work on April 24, 2003. He met the Munchkin for her third birthday. I was there as he looked into the face of a girl who looks so much like me and so much like him at the same time. I knew what he was feeling; I felt it every time I looked at her over the years. I still feel it.

It is his turn to run. I haven’t returned phone calls or text messages since he told me the news. I considered it last night as I listened to Tori break my heart all over again. I’m angry. And jealous. Not even so much about the issues that lead to her adoption, but more that he can just fly off into the rising sun of his future and leave us all behind. As if this never happened. As if we never happened. As if she never happened. And I know, from his words shared with me, that isn’t how he thinks or feels. But that’s how it feels, sitting in Ohio.

This post is not meant to be construed as a dislike or disinterest in my own family. Anyone who reads that is not acknowledging the fact that our past does affect us and shape our futures. He was a huge part of my past. He gave me my firstborn. He’ll forever be a part of my future because of that and, as such, I have a right to write about him. It’s been awhile since I have and, as such, here we are. Running. Always running.

… joy and sorrow are inseparable. . . together they come and when one sits alone with you . . . remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

-Kahlil Gibran

No wonder I can’t be bothered to make my bed. Either joy or sorrow are hiding beneath the lumpy mess anyway! I don’t want to disturb the slumber of sorrow, though, of course, it seems that I have and now joy won’t wake up despite the fact that my oldest son was bouncing all over the bed while I sat on the floor and cried yesterday afternoon.

It is interesting. My Husband has always said, “You take the good with the bad.” And this quote about joy and sorrow being so closely followed by one another makes me realize that I don’t like it when my Husband is right. Don’t tell him I said so. I won’t admit it. I’ll edit this entry. I will!

I was feeling fine. Life was rolling along. My oldest son was doing well in his foray into schooling. I got to have a nice little phone conversation with my daughter. My youngest son was doing cute new things like tackling his brother and playing peekaboo. And then, BAM! My grandfather died. And nothing made sense.

Was sorrow just slowly creeping out from under the covers? Did all of those really awesome things happen in such a short amount of time because I needed them to happen when they did in order to get through this cruddy time frame? Perhaps. I don’t know. I wish joy and sorrow weren’t in so close of cahoots with one another. I’d like warning from one or the other when the pendulum is about to swing in the opposite direction. I’m considering not answering my phone anymore. No more bad news, thank you very much.

Sorrow is apparently the insomniac walking the halls of my house right now will joy has curled up in bed for a nice long slumber. I’m not quite sure how to get sorrow to down some sleeping pills and get to bed. You know, since I can’t figure out how to get my oldest son to go back to bed right now either. (We’re deep in the “I need a drink of water,” “I need to pee,” “I just want to tell you I love you,” excuse phase of procrastinating sleep this week. Cute but draining.) I’m waiting for joy to jump out of bed. I’m waiting for the phone to ring with good news. Or an email. Or an instant message. Or something that lets me know this not all a waste.

I’m going to make my bed today.