Linkin Park did it again. I’ve been off of my rock and alternative kick this summer, as summers are for country music. I tuned back into the Alternative channel on SiriusXM and caught “Iridescent” at the beginning and thus proceeded to weep on my steering wheel.

I think it is important to note that the “let is go” in these lyrics is not about letting go of my daughter. Or “getting over” this grief and loss. It is about letting go of that overwhelming feeling prior to placement — the one that I still hold against myself.

I wish I could properly verbalize what I felt at that time. Stuck on Level III bed rest in a musty basement apartment with little to no support. Communication lines between my mother and I were faulty at best; mostly broken and unresponsive from either side. I would sit in the quiet and re-read the few books I had brought with me, none of which were the typical pregnancy and parenting preparation type books. I owned none… not one. I was alone most of the time. I was scared all of the time. And alone and scared are never a great combination.

I have sat and pondered that time in my life. My anxiety was still undiagnosed at that point in my life. I wasn’t able to step outside of the situation at hand and say, “Hey, you’re snowballing things that don’t really need snowballed. This is manageable. Take a breath and move forward.” I was stuck in my situation. Stuck. Cold. Lost in desperation. Too used to my own perceived failures (see also: undiagnosed anxiety) to even dare to hope. Sadness. Frustration. No way out. I couldn’t see my now husband for what he was. I couldn’t see my mom’s anger or my dad’s silence as their own coping mechanisms. I listened to others who had agendas. I listened to others who had per-conceived notions about my state as an unwed mother. I couldn’t hear myself through my fear.

And I still harbor so much hate and resentment for myself for not being able to see past the immediacy of the situation. Hot, burning, deep hatred. That’s what I want to let go. I want to look upon myself with the same compassion and grace that I afford others. I want to hug the young, scared girl that I was and tell her, no matter what, she’ll be okay. I just want to tell her that she is loved — because I didn’t believe I was at that time. By anyone. I want to forgive myself — to let go. And I know that I need to. For me. For the Munchkin. For my boys. My husband.

For all of us.

Waiting for the end to come
Wishing I had strength to stand
This is not what I had planned
It’s out of my control….

That is exactly — exactly — how I felt while pregnant with the Munchkin. I felt like I was on a conveyor belt, waiting for the end to come. I felt that there was only one outcome — relinquishment. I not only physically didn’t have the ability to stand that much due to my health problems, but I felt emotionally unable to stand up for myself and say, “Hey!” Or anything. It was not what I had planned. And it all felt very out of my control.

Flying at the speed of light
Thoughts were spinning in my head
So many things were left unsaid
It’s hard to let you go…

And then she was born. And in a whirlwind of three days, she was gone. It was so fast (and weirdly, so slow as well). For someone who is used to verbalizing just about anything she speaks, I felt mute. I couldn’t say what I was thinking, not because anyone was forcing me to be quiet. I just couldn’t speak. Out of fear — fear of what might happen if I did speak up, fear of my own voice, fear of what I wanted, fear of what I didn’t want.

Sitting in an empty room
Trying to forget the past
This was never meant to last,
I wish it wasn’t so…

And after, alone in my apartment. After everyone had left. I was alone. Who leaves a four day postpartum woman alone? Completely alone?

know what it takes to move on,
I know how it feels to lie,
All I wanna do
Is trade this life for something new
Holding on to what I haven’t got

Mmm. Move on is always a tricky way to describe it, but it makes more sense when you add in the “holding on to what I haven’t got.” I never moved on without my daughter. She has come with me in each of my life changes. She moved with me to Ohio nine days after her birth. She was with me through each decision to get married, to take a different job, to build our family, to take a different career path, to be the best version of myself that I can be. I think, perhaps, that’s what people misunderstand about the relinquishment process. Yes, birth parents can and do “move on,” but they are forever changed.

And, at the very beginning:

This is not the end
This is not the beginning

Now if ever there was a way to describe the birth and relinquishment of a child, well, there it is. Some people would like to assume or really have it be the end for birth parents and the beginning for adoptive parents. But it’s really not for either group. It’s not the end for birth parents; there’s a lifetime of processing in different ways. Some are sad and some are happy. And for adoptive parents, the truth is that the child’s beginning doesn’t really start that magic moment that they are placed in their arms. It’s far more complicated than that. Far more complicated.

Those are my musings on a song that hit me in ways that I’m sure Linkin Park didn’t quite intend. Their video, embedded below, is interesting. Note: Not one of Linkin Park’s more laid back, quiet songs. It’s loud. And sometimes I need to be loud when I’m processing things, so this was quite perfect.

Can’t a girl catch a break?

And so I was listening to the Wicked soundtrack. I know, you’re surprised. I’ve never done that before. As it’s coming to Columbus this summer, I’m on yet another big kick. I digress. I was working while the soundtrack kept me tip-tap-typing away. And all of a sudden, Kristen Chenoweth made me cry. I skip songs sometimes. I have favorites. We all have favorite songs in musicals; don’t judge me. I normally skip Thank Goodness because it’s such a train-wreck change from Defying Gravity. (That would be because one is the end of the first act and the other is the start of the next. I digress again.)

Anyway, it had been awhile since I had listened to the lyrics and heard the soaring notes near the end of the song. You know, before it got all sappy-happy again. I “rewound” my iTunes and started at the section in which Glinda starts to question whether or not she’s really happy with how things have turned out. And then I cried a little bit more.

That’s why I couldn’t be happier
No, I couldn’t be happier
Though it is, I admit
The tiniest bit
Unlike I anticipated
But I couldn’t be happier
Simply couldn’t be happier
(spoken) Well – not “simply”:
(sung) ‘Cause getting your dreams
It’s strange, but it seems
A little – well – complicated
There’s a kind of a sort of : cost
There’s a couple of things get: lost
There are bridges you cross
You didn’t know you crossed
Until you’ve crossed
And if that joy, that thrill
Doesn’t thrill you like you think it will
Still -
With this perfect finale
The cheers and ballyhoo
Who
Wouldn’t be happier?
So I couldn’t be happier
Because happy is what happens
When all your dreams come true
Well, isn’t it?

I am expected to be happy because I chose adoption. I am expected to be happy because I still have contact with my daughter and her family. Good contact at that! A wonderful relationship! I am expected to be happy because I have continued with making something of myself, my life. I am blessed with an amazing husband, two awesome sons and a (busy but rewarding series of) career(s). I am expected to be happy because I have all of this! Which wouldn’t be possible if I wouldn’t have placed! Right?

Except… it’s the tiniest bit unlike I anticipated. It’s most definitely different than how I was “counseled” it would be like; it’s not even remotely like I was told it would be. I was told that I would “get over it.” That I would “go on with my life.” That it wouldn’t hurt as much some day. That I would forget the pain and the grief. That I would be happy and content with my choice.

But it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?

Happiness with the relationship I have with my daughter’s mom and my daughter doesn’t magically erase the fact that there was a cost. There was a loss. The loss doesn’t go away. The hurt is still as intense though I have been lucky enough to receive personally-funded therapy so that I have better ways of coping with said loss. The peace I feel most days doesn’t mean that the hurt of missing her isn’t still all-consuming when it washes over me. Suddenly. When I’m listening to musical soundtracks in the wee hours of the night. When a little girl goes running by and launches herself into her mommy’s arms. When my oldest son prays for his sister. When I get anxious about upcoming visits (two weeks). It’s very real.

And, so, yes, I identify with the line that there are bridges you cross you didn’t you crossed until you’ve crossed. There are days that I’m not quite sure how I got here. And I’m aware of the fact that I am grateful. But I’m also confused. And happy! And sad. And occasionally kind of mad! And peaceful. And full of questions! And answers.

The point being that the myth that adoption is all happiness or all sorrow is that: a myth. I won’t apologize for being a mostly happy individual. I won’t apologize for voicing my sadness. I will attempt to live through my full emotional cycle every time it spins. I learn something with each up and down, each ebb and flow of the tide. Today I am happy. But I always miss her. Is it really that hard to understand?

Well, isn’t it?

First it talked about death which, as you might know, is a hard concept for me right now as we have lost two family members this winter. I didn’t skip the song though. Again, amazing harmonies tickled my ears and I kept listening as the wind rushed through the open window.

Then the second verse smacked me in the face. I’m lucky I didn’t wreck the vehicle.

And you are the mother
The mother of your baby child
The one to whom you gave life
And you have your choices
And these are what make man great
His ladder to the stars

I kid you not. I can’t make these things up.

I had to restart the song, breathe my way through the death part and give it another listen. I cried a bit. As I do. I’m a crier. The chorus that follows is equally moving, especially considering what was just sung.

But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we’ll hold your hand
Hold your hand

Oh, so many meanings tied up in that chorus following that verse. Not alone in what? In any choice? If I had chosen to parent, would my hand still have been held? As a birth mother now, still making my way through this journey, will someone still hold my hand? I felt hopeful and despondent all in one thought process.

I know, of course, that I am not alone. I also know that I am her mother, her first mother, who gave her life. But sometimes, still, it gets lonely. Even with support at every turn here on the Internet and in my real life. But the dark days are dark. The lonely days are lonely. The hard days are hard. I assume they are for all of us, no matter our choices, our journeys. Being reminded that I’m not totally alone, despite choices and the like, is nice. But to be caught off guard like that by a song was… wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time.

The song ends with this gem.

And I will tell the night
Whisper, “Lose your sight”
But I can’t move the mountains for you

An important point, I think.

I do believe that’s why I have such a difficult time with certain blogs, especially those of newer birth mothers. I want to make it easy for them, to help them transition into a life journey that they never could have imagined for themselves. I want to walk with them through that egg-shell-like first year. I want to hold their hand when their defenses come crashing down. I want to help them rebuild their lives as they make their way through the rubble. But I can’t, really. I can only offer a kind word, a shoulder and my own story. Our stories will never be exactly alike. They will live their own journey. They will climb and move their own mountains. I’ve climbed so many of my own, tunneled my way through the darkest of days. I can only pray that they make it through or over to the other side where the calming streams of peace await. It’s hard to watch.

And yet I know, as I do most days, that they are also surrounded by those who do care. That’s why I’m here. I’m here for me, for my healing. But I do care, even when I don’t have the words. We’re never alone.

By the way? Totally awesome band. They’re coming to Columbus in May. Going. End of story.

Edited to add: Have a listen. Have a tissue near.

At first, I couldn’t believe that what was going on was even a possibility. Then as that quickly sank in, I realized that I didn’t want to jinx it on a grand, public scale. Talking about something on a public blog before it is an actuality is almost a surefire way to make sure it doesn’t happen. And then I had to wait an extra week because something that needed to happen didn’t/couldn’t happen because of the insane amount of ice and snow thrust upon our region. That melted and, last week, everything came together.

What am I talking about?

I mentioned, at various times in the past few months, that I joined our local chorale. I did not have a solo at the Christmas concert because it was my first concert of my first season. Why would I have had a solo? I simply enjoyed the act of being on stage and singing once again. We’re now preparing for our spring show which has a theme of “Broadway Updated.” My director approached me a few weeks ago, pulled out one of the medleys and asked me if I “knew” one of the songs.

What a silly question! I’m a musical dork! To boot, the medley in question was the Miss Saigon medley. And I’m willing to bet lights just went on in several brains reading this post. That’s right, my director, without knowing my history, asked me if I knew the song “I’d Give My Life for You.” I simply smiled and said that, yes, I loved Miss Saigon. He then told me he’d want to hear me sing it and that he might turn it into the whole song instead of the eight measures it was in the medley. And then we were off for an entire week.

I practiced. And practiced. To and from the Poconos. For two weeks, I sang that song like it was the only song on the planet. My older son now asks me to sing it when we’re in the truck, calling it “Mommy’s song.” I practiced and practiced and, oh my goodness, I practiced.

And then at practice last Tuesday, everything paid off.

I am now not singing just that song (yes, stretched out to be most of the full song) but any part that Kim’s character in the Miss Saigon medley sings, well, I’m singing. That equals out to one other small solo in “The Heat is on in Saigon” and a duet with Chris’s character. I’m overwhelmed. And excited. And nervous. And happy. And scared. And proud. And a bunch of other emotions.

Including… amused. At the irony. Oh? You don’t know the song? You’re not familiar with the words? Do me a favor. Watch this YouTube video. No, really, do it. I’ll wait.

That’s right. I’m singing a song about putting my child’s needs before my own. True, the song is about a boy but, other than the one mention, that’s not the point of the song, now is it? Lines like “you didn’t ask me to be born” and “I’ll give you a million things I’ll never own, I’ll give you a world to conquer when you’re grown” and the main point of the song: “you will be who you want to be, you can choose whatever heaven grants, as long as you can have your chance, I swear I’ll give my life for you.”

Do you have a lump in your throat as well? Yeah.

I’m not particularly sure how I’ll be able to sing this song in front of a huge crowd… that includes my daughter’s mom. That’s right. They’re coming out for the performance. I don’t yet know how we’ll handle the kids so I don’t know if the Munchkin will be in attendance. There is that chance as she’s been to and is old enough to attend formal performances. So, we’ll see.

That aside, a friend of mine said that I should bring “something” to the song that no one else can. Yep. Raw emotion. In your face.

Raw emotion aside, I’m so very excited. My husband is very proud. We’ve made jokes about being typecast because of my eye shape. But it’s been years and years since I’ve been recognized, outside of church, for my vocal ability. This? This feels so very good.

He does not sing:

Let’s see how far we’ve come.

He sings:

Let’s see how far we go.

My husband and I fall all over ourselves with the absolute cuteness of that mis-sung lyric. In fact, we’ve started singing it his way rather than the right way. One day last week, we all (including my youngest son) were bebopping around the kitchen with the song blaring in the background, dancing and singing, at the top of our lungs, “Let’s see how far we GO!” Memories like these, of course, are what make being a parent so awesome. Someday he will deny ever having liked us enough to act like a fool in the kitchen. But then one day maybe he will be blessed with children equally as awesome and will get to bebop around his own kitchen singing the wrong lyrics. And maybe he’ll say a silent thank you.

Memories, however adorable, aren’t really the point of this post.

I’ve been thinking a lot about 2008 the past few days (like the rest of the world). It was a difficult year in many respects. Speaking specifically of our open adoption, it was a year of adjustment, a year of difficult communication and a year sorely lacking in visits. This falls at the feet of the lot of us and not just one person or “side” of the triad. We were all dealing with our own very complicated issues that needed a lot of attention. By the end of the year, however, I think we found ourselves in a place that was similar to the comfortable relationship of past years.

In fact, for me, I’m cherishing moments and the “little things” a bit more. Knowing how busy life can be with two children, I am fully aware of the effort that Munchkin’s Mom puts in when she makes any time to include me. I mean, have you seen my laundry pile lately? Good grief. Furthermore, having been through some rather silent months (for lack of a better term), I now fully recognize how any contact is better than no contact.

All the same, referencing the original song lyric, I think I prefer my son’s lyrics better.

Looking at how far we come, I can appreciate the hard work we have put in to overcome some difficulties. I recognize the times that we have faltered in our relationship and respect the work that was done to fix those issues. But, at the same time, I want to have the outlook that my son has…

I want to see how far we can go!

What will 2009 bring for us? With a visit planned for later this month, I can tell you that it will bring smiles and laughter and likely fights amongst children. But other than that, I don’t know what 2009 holds for us as an open adoption family.

But I’m so excited to see how far we go. So excited.

I went through my current favorite Christian songs. I downloaded (legally!) a bunch of different tracks. And I got frustrated. The songs that I like tend to get a little, uhm, loud and I don’t really feel like blowing out any hearing aids. The other problem is that there are so few female vocalists, especially of the Christian variety, that have any “edge” or iota of interestingness that fit in my vocal range. Using a track from a male vocalists is difficult as heck. I fail at it. FAIL!

So, finally, I got aggravated, spent another $5.00 and downloaded the sheet music for the song I most wanted to sing from sheetmusicplus.com and called the pianist from my church. I didn’t even have to bribe. She’s happy to work with me and she will be in church that Sunday. Works well.

I’ve decided on Never Alone by Barlow Girl. When you watch it on YouTube, picture it without loud guitars, just piano. Gives it a more… raw… feel. No? More vulnerable? Exposed? That’s what I’m going for as that’s how I’ve been feeling as of late. The handful of songs that I was considering all played around with that theme. That vulnerability. That absolute nothingness without God. It’s where I am so it makes sense that it would speak to me.

I have a strong faith. I do. But it’s really been shaken lately. I’ve had my moments of anger with God, which I am assured that everyone deals with at various points in their lives. Right now, I’m really … working on it. But struggling at the same time. I know He is there… but dang if I don’t feel alone in all of this as of late. I don’t understand what is going on and why and it hurts. I feel broken. I feel so many things. And so, it makes sense that I resonate with this:

I cry out with no reply
And I can’t feel you by my side
So, I hold tight to what I know…
You’re here. And I’m never alone.

Perhaps it also speaks so much to me right now because of my belief that a mother’s love knows no ending, no bounds? Kind of like the Father’s? Oh parallels of my life! Anyway… I’m sure it also has something to do with the guitars in the real version. Aren’t they FANTASTICALLY ANGRY?! But the piano itself is beautiful. It’s kind of like me. A dichotomy of conflicting feelings. Hopeful and hopeless. (Also, it doesn’t hurt that the lead singer is a brunette. Heh. I can “see” myself in the video. If only I could rock a big electric guitar like that, perhaps I’d have a great creative outlet for this stuff.)

Anyway, I’ve got just about three weeks to practice. I’m meeting with my pianist a few times over the next few weeks to get it down. The verse is on the lower end of my register but… well, it feels good to sing low right now. Matches my mood.

Now, the mainstream world doesn’t really know of Liz Phair before her 2003 hit, “Why Can’t I?” You may be surprised to know that she had quite a few albums before her self-titled one was released. Dating back to the early 90′s, Phair has been around the music world for “quite some time” when you think about it.

The song that came on was not one I had heard of and I wasn’t looking at the name of it when it changed songs. I just heard the first line. And I choked on my coffee. Ready for it? Here it goes.

My black market white baby dealer

Oh. Yeah. Heard that right. I immediately opened a Google window, found the lyrics to “Black Market White Baby Dealer” and read along as I listened, eyes bulging out of my head and ears shocked. The song was recorded by Liz herself on her first duo-tape (yes, tape) set in the early 90′s, Girlysound. It was the first track on Tape One.

Now, the quality is low, of course, being recorded in her parents’ basement. Add that into the fact that these lyrics will not be any internationally adopting parents favorite and the song may not sit well with large groups of people. But I dare you to read them in full. (Won’t copy/paste all due to copyright infringement.) But, even if you don’t want to read, here’s the chorus, which changes and gets progressively worse each time to finally include the word “expensive.” Honesty, no?

My black market white baby dealer
Is hunting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Brings back clean, fresh white babies to me

Other words for hunting include rooting and, yes, kidnapping. No, Phair sure isn’t making friends with the adoption world, now is she? She takes it further. Read on.

My smile is dime a dozen
My lips are cherry red
My eyes are blue like the sky is blue
I got good shoulders under my head
I look like your mother
I look like your great-aunt
So sit me down in the family photo
And everyone tells me that I, I look just like you

Ah, yes. And I started to wonder. These lyrics are the personal form of “I.” While singer-songwriters often take on stories that are not their own, this is an awfully big topic to take on without any prior knowledge of the adoption world. And so I asked myself, is Phair an adoptee?

Yes, yes she is.

This page has a Phair biography regarding her childhood and it discusses her adoption at various points. As opposed to the lyrics in her song, she was adopted domestically by a Doctor and his wife. She was the second child adopted into the family. Some of her quotes hit me hard. Read on, of course.

About five percent of my ambition is the idea that if I get visible enough my (biological) parents will come to me. And I won’t have to go find them. I thought that was a really good idea. Connecticut doesn’t release files. They might not want to be found, and if they did want to be found, what would that do to my sense of the possibilties in life? I’ve been given a free reign to create myself. I could be anything because, frankly, one doesn’t know what I’m destined for.

Wow. She puts up a tough front but the first sentence says it all: she does want to be found in some way or another. Isn’t that what all birth parents fear? That their relinquished child will balk at their arrival into their lives once again? And who thinks Phair could be a great spokesperson for opening records? Hmm?

She goes on:

It (being adopted) motivates my songwriting. It gives me that free space — I’ve got this mental idea that I’m not really, deep-down, fully attached to anything, like that floatable world that artists create for themselves. I’m a member of that world, intrinsically. I don’t have a biological mother to refute. Bad behavior in a child, you can frame it up against your parents — you know, ‘You’re just like your father.’ Since I don’t have that model, it frees me up to pursue what I want to perceive as myself.

I get her point. Sometimes I look at my (biological) family and think, “Well, I’m either going to turn out like this or like this.” Phair is stating that, because of her lack of knowledge about her nature, she’s free to nurture herself into whatever she wants to be. I bet that does feel freeing in a way. But I also know, still looking at my family, that I can be whatever I want to be as well. We all have that ability. We do. Some are just unwilling to take the steps to be what they want and fall into lazy patterns. Don’t deny it. Even I do it.

And there’s your daily history adoption lesson. I’m off to download the song and add it to my playlist(s).

Song comes on by Chantal Kreviazuk. I enjoy Chantal. Anyone who loved Dawson’s Creek and/or had the sountrack(s) knows Chantal. Others do as well. I listened. And I started crying. My tears match the rain drops. Early morning washing away of the emotional pollen of my life.

You can read all the lyrics here. Let me grab a few that speak to me. On so many levels. In so many ways.

If I could be anyone for you believe me I would
I’m not ashamed not ashamed to be

I am not ashamed to be her birth mother. Ah, but haven’t I said, “I am not proud to be a birth mother.” Read the difference in the lines. I am not ashamed to be her birth mother. She is part of me. I will never be ashamed of her existence and my participation in that existence. And, yes, I’d be anyone she needed me to be. Wouldn’t we all do that for our kids?

Its hard for me to know, well maybe I should just let go.
But what if it all means something?

I think many birth parents struggle with that; I know some have verbalized that internal worry over the past few months. I struggle with it. It is hard for me to know. I wrote about it, kind of, yesterday. Do I matter? Is this all going to be okay in the end? Should I just “let go,” though, as birth mothers, we know that there is no emotional letting go. But. What if it all DOES mean something? And that’s why I keep on, really. In hopes that my actions, words and presence do mean something. I have to hope.

I know it all means something.

Maybe I’m not there yet. But I will be someday. I have to believe that I mean something. To all of my children.

With or Without You by U2.

This part? Right here? Speaks so much about that time, prior to relinquishment.

My hands are tied
My body bruised, shes got me with
Nothing to win and
Nothing left to lose

I felt so helpless. My hands were tied. I felt so used. My body was stretched and broken and bruised. I had nothing to win and nothing left to lose. Ya know, except my daughter. Oh, hindsight, what a wretched beast you are.

I was listening to the radio on the way to the mall today. And this song came on. And I was singing, really enjoying the harmonies available in this song. BigBrother, safe in his car seat in the back of the Mustang, probably thought Mommy was nuts. Because I can really get into singing some U2. And then it got to that verse.

And my voice got a bit quieter.

And then… I had to sing…

And you give yourself away…

And I cried. Hard.

There are times that I can’t live, with myself, for doing what I did. Of course, I do live on for my children, for myself. But, man, sometimes. Like this afternoon. When it really hits me? When what I’ve done smacks me across the face with such severity? When it is that thorn twisting in my side? Oh, it hurts. It just really hurts.