January 31, 2013 § 19 Comments
Instead of working on homework that I really need to do, I spent the afternoon adding links to my blogroll. What a pain in the ass. I never realized how many blogs I read. And I dislike the way it looks. I want clean, simple appearances, not a bunch of stuff everywhere, fighting for attention. So I placed the blogroll at the bottom.
A lot of them are adoption-related, and written by adoptive parents, birth parents, adoptees, or activists. Some of them aren’t; they’re just blogs I started following. And it’s by no means a complete list of my reading material. I read way more fashion blogs than I can count, and especially men’s dress clothes since that’s what I work with.
If I read a blog, it’s because I think it is somehow worthy or interesting or well-written. But there’s more to it. I’ve written a few times about how I cannot relate to many adoption blogs. There’s nothing wrong with that person or their story. I just can’t relate. Clearly, going through the same experience does not mean we are twins. I don’t fully relate to many of the authors I read, either. But if I see something that speaks to me, I read it. And I do care. I care about the friends I’ve made, even if I hate that blogging about adoption is the reason we became friends.
And with that, I think I am going to cut back on reading all these adoption blogs. Not stop, just cut back. I have an obsessive need to KNOW, to know what to expect, to know how it may develop, and to prepare myself somehow. It’s exhausting to worry about the future.
The truth is, all the blogs in the world can’t tell me what my relationship with C and L will be, or if there will even be one. None of these blogs can tell me what you, sweet little boy, will think of me when you grow older, how you will treat me, or if you speak to me at all. None of it describes exactly how your life will transpire, how you will handle being adopted. Women write about their own lives, but none of them predict my future, if I will be a mom again, if I will be alive in a few years, if I will be happy or sad.
Other people’s blogs provide a view of their experience, and that’s valuable. But my life is mine, and the ugliest part of my life is here, as naked and stripped open as a corpse on an autopsy table. My words are the only ones that describe it.
“Blog” is a disgusting word. It brings to mind someone vomiting up their insides.
January 22, 2013 § 9 Comments
I’ve gotten a lot of readership and found some interesting people since Claudia submitted one of my posts to Best of Open Adoption Blogs 2012. I remember I used to be amazed at having even 65 views in a week, and now I have more hits in a day than that.
I have seriously mixed feelings about the whole thing. I’m so surprised at how nice people are and I’m glad other people have taken the time to read my writing, but I wish it was about something happier. I don’t want to be a “birthmother blog.” It was never some sort of ambition of mine. It still isn’t. The only positive thing I can say is that being able to write about it (no matter how much it makes me cry) is a sign of progress. It took five or six weeks before I could put any of my feelings into writing. I had no words for what I felt. I couldn’t imagine putting a pen to paper and telling my story, because it was one that I couldn’t process and understand. I was so numb and felt physically pained and weak. My eyes felt burned raw. I still feel that way a lot of the time and the ugliness of it still tears, but the fact that I’ve written about it has sorted things out. I have words, and that’s something! It means that it matters.
One day in September, I was supposed to meet a friend at the park, and the park turned out to be crowded with literally hundreds of people. There was both a suicide prevention awareness thing and a cancer walk. My phone died and I had no idea where she was, so I sat on the grass and started writing in my notebook the first three posts of this blog.
It must seem like I enjoy whining and feeling sorry for myself, but I wish none of this was a part of my life. I’m grateful for having this place where these emotions may be relegated, but I don’t want this blog. I never wanted to understand this kind of loss. I never wanted to be strong, although that isn’t a descriptor I would use for myself. I definitely never wanted to be a part of “the adoption community.” I just want you! I just wish my life was how it naturally would be.
After I received pictures of you at three months, I had maybe a month of peace and comfort, the first sense of relief from continual anxiety. It was easier to think of you and the life you are having. I just hope you are happy and you don’t miss me. Now that six months is quickly approaching, the anxiety has been too. I’m so scared I won’t see you again. I hope this time I get more than just 7 pictures, which weren’t even dated. I hope I get to hear about how you’re doing this time. I hope the update is detailed and more than a page long. I know that’s way too much to expect. But I would feel really disrespected to read a summary of your first six months of life in a few paragraphs. Who am I kidding though? I’m positive I will be disappointed.
You must be so big now, cutie. According to the internet, you are probably more than 15 pounds! You must be sitting up all by yourself. You can probably roll around from your back to your stomach. I bet you can sleep throughout the night now, like a good boy. Your eyes should be their real color now. You’ll be eating solid food soon. You probably laugh and smile and babble. I really wish I could see that.
I’m not expecting much, or trying not to. Last week, on the first day of the semester, I was rummaging through my desk drawers and I was grabbing some blank notebook paper when I saw a letter from C and L. I really need to go through my desk drawers and organize things, so I don’t have more nasty surprises. I have the tendency to just throw shit in there. The letter from them was short, but they said they were glad things seemed to be going well, and they talked about getting the nursery ready and buying clothes for the first year. They ended the letter with, “We can’t wait to meet our baby.”
I was pregnant, thank you very much.
January 20, 2013 § 11 Comments
David and I got back together officially on New Year’s Eve, although we’d talked about it for a while before. Some people know and others do not. I’m not sure who falls into which category. I have no desire to talk about or share our relationship with any of my friends, at least for now. I don’t need their opinions about it. If I’m happy, they should support me. My recent history with David has been a convulsion of hurt and turmoil, but, what? We’re not the first couple to have a less than perfect relationship. There are plenty of literary precedents. Cathy and Heathcliff, Nickie and Terry, Frida and Diego, Scarlett and Rhett. Everyone I know should be able to understand difficult relationships from their own experiences, too, but I guess it’s easier to cast a critical eye away from yourself. David and Ariel, Ariel and David. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. He is the only person I could ever see myself with. I’ll always love him.
The biggest worry I have is that I can’t talk to him about this, about anything I’ve written in this blog. I don’t have a single person in my life it’s safe for me to talk about with. It’s created a distance between me and everyone I know. They might not notice, but I do. I’ve cut everyone out of such a huge part of my psyche. It’s necessary. Whenever it comes up, the conversation reaches a dead end immediately. I just want someone to listen to what I say and understand. I’m not especially interested in hearing how strong I am. I don’t care if someone thinks that I’ll move on from it soon. I just want to be able to talk about you, my baby, without the person feeling uncomfortable or irritated with me. I just want to be able to answer the question, “what’s wrong?” No one wants the answer. I guess I feel like they should know already.
I had my birthday this month, 24 on January 11. I worked that day, went out to dinner with my family, then had a few drinks at my favorite bar with David and a mutual friend. I got some good books and DVDs. It was decent, as long as I ignored the fact that it was my birthday. If I thought about how little I’ve accomplished relative to how many mistakes I’ve made, and what I thought I’d be at my age compared to what I am, I felt really depressed. If I treated it as another day, I was fine.