If ever there was a visual perspective of what this “coming out of the haze” is like, this is it. This is a picture of a young woman, after the tsnuami in Japan. I found it in this post, and as struck as I was by the words surrounding it, I couldn’t help but focus on the picture itself.
I get that pain on her face. I get the pain for different reasons then what she just suffered through, but I know it. I know that overwhelming feeling of utter devastation all to well.
This past week, I’ve have become overcome with anguish; I’ve cried the toe curling cry as I realized (not that I didn’t already know this), there was nothing I could do correct the events of the past. There is nothing I can change. Even worse, I can’t erase those memories. Even worse then that, is the fact that I am no longer drugged up on false pretenses and cleverly disguised lies. I can’t ignore these feelings, nor can I push them aside. I am unable to ignore the reality of what happened to me. It’s no longer something that is hiding in the background; the trauma, the real trauma of what I have dealt with has come into the light, and it’s ready to have it’s turn.
Of course, there is the harsh realization that my adoption is not my adoption. It’s the adoption; it’s the adoption that was chosen for me. It was the path that was given to me, not as a gift, but as an ultimatum. There was no choice in this path. Every bit of the adoption was told to me. It was presented in away where I felt that I had a choice; but I never did. It all just happened to me, a young girl at 17, with no real experience in the world, and the naivety that the adults around me would have my best interest at heart. I trusted that my instincts were wrong, and I handed myself over to those who “knew better”.
That’s just it: the adoption happened to me. It happened to me. I didn’t give The Kiddo away, that statement implies that I was given a choice,that I was not coerced by others. It also implies that I didn’t want him. Something we know to be completely false. They, the agency, gave him away. They just used me as a vessel- they a got what they wanted. The agency got the baby, meaning they were monetarily supported/reimbursed for the transaction. The adoptive family was allowed to be blessed and congratulated on experiencing the miracle of adoption. My parents were allowed to use the story to show they had redeemed themselves in the eyes of the church, as parents. Like some sort of sacrificial offering. They offered me up, and in turn to redeem them, I had to offer up The Kiddo. All in the hopes of some perfect redemption, forgiveness. Like their god still needed physical offerings in order to test our commitment to him. Did Abraham end up actually sacrificing his son Isaac in the end? Or am I mistaken that he was allowed to take him home to love and enjoy? What was the difference in the end? What did he do that I didn’t?
Like a victim of mother nature’s wrath, or a victim of abuse, it all happened to me. I felt as though I had no choice, no voice, and was trapped by circumstance. I was a causality of a religious and financial agenda. Had I chosen other wise, I would have been disposed off, or highly attacked until I caved into their propaganda once again.
I imagine that I have been sitting in this pile of rubble for some time. I imagine that it’s always looked like this, I had just been wearing my rose colored glasses, the ones I had been given by those who sold me the “miracle and beauty” of adoption. I think the shock of seeing all of the rubble around me has been served; I assume that even if I clean the entire area up, there will still be remnants of the tsunami, things that just simply will never go back to normal, places that have been forever changed. I assume that there will be days like the ones I’ve had in the last few weeks, where I will be shaken to my core when I really understand the insurmountable damage that has accrued from the event 8 years ago. I will consistently be moved, and feel raw. There will be days where I will feel like I won’t ever be able to recover, and there will be days where I will wonder, “what is the point?”.
I got caught up reading the post I wrote shortly after I was able to see The Kiddo over the summer, this morning. It struck me that despite the painfulness of that event, I was still able to see the importance of each feeling related to this process. This is much the same; yes, there is this horrible mess surrounding me, but at the same time, I needed to see it, observe it and take it in before I can actually begin to try to clean it up. There is something unbelievably sacred about it at the same time; it’s shaped me to an extensive degree, and as I move it invariably, I will change, and evolve. The one constant as I sift through all of this, the pain, the heartache, the grief?
I love The Kiddo. I love him more then I thought I would at this point. That has been the only thing that has remained the same, that has always weathered the storm, and will always be there, even when I’m sitting in a pile of proverbial garbage. I love him now, I loved him then, and my need to move through these feelings is a testament to how much I love him still. It won’t ever go away like I was told. It will never diminish or lessen, like they explained it would. Even through the ugly, at the heart of it, love is moving this change within me, and propelling me to continue fighting, to keep pushing through. I need to get to that point; the point where the love I have for The Kiddo is not being overshadowed by this awful, dredgy angry goo.
I hope I can get there. I think I can get there. I can clean up the mess, and find something good in the aftermath. Right?