Thursday, February 3, 2011
So I am breaking my own rule...AGAIN.
After the fiasco from the "Stat Counter Confessions" series, I swore that I would not blog about my personal situation for awhile. That I would only go through and publish posts that were sitting in draft form regarding several miscellaneous adoption related thoughts I have been having over the last few months, book reviews, movie reviews, etc. "Entitlement" was the first of those. Not directed to or about anyone. Not reflectant on my personal situation or experiences at all. Just thoughts in my head. After the huge influx of anonymous commenters on the blog, meanies on formspring, and the straight up threat letter I received in my email regarding the safety of both my family and my job, I decided that enough was enough, and I was going to take a few months off of the personal stuff.
But the comments keep coming. New posts, old posts, more emails (one of which went to my personal email as opposed to my blog linked email...interesting....), I need to address something personal. Very personal.
This post is not a random vent. It is not me tossing my thoughts out in to the blosphere to ponder. It is also NOT intended for those of you who positively advocate adoption. It is NOT meant for those of you at peace with your decision to help me make peace with mine.
You guys skip this post, and resume reading at a later date.
This is to the meanies...the ones who won't go away. The ones who cannot grasp the concept that this is just me, telling my version of my story...that it is for me to process how I got here...and more importantly, how to get out of here. Who won't stop asking the rhetorical questions that sting. What kind of person am I? What kind of Mother am I? How could I? Enough is enough.
Just stop. Stop reading. Stop asking. Stop.
My adoption journey has turned into a nightmare that I never could have imagined. Regardless of who's at fault, or who did what right or wrong, or what was best for my family, or L* and M*'s family...this is hell. And it really doesn't matter how I got here...what matters is that I AM HERE.
There is a line in one of my most favorite movies, What Dreams May Come that says that "Hell is YOUR life gone wrong." I am in my hell now, and I don't need you to come visit. I don't need you to waste your time and energy thinking of the perfect thing to say to top the last mean thing said. I don't need you to find the right combination of words to make me hurt. To make me feel bad. To call me names. To question my right to parent. I am inflicting my own pain rather nicely, and I don't need your assistance.
I live everyday with the world caving in on my head. With the consequences of a right decision gone wrong screaming in my face. With three beautiful children staring at me, wondering why it's so hard for me to stare back. Suffocating in my own thoughts. Drowning in my own regrets. Swimming in my own bitterness. Walking around smiling like nothing is wrong, while the voices in my head are screaming so loud I can't think straight. Can't sleep. Can't focus. Can't function. I have fought insomnia on and off my entire life. This time, I am loosing that battle. Do you know what it's like to stay awake for days on end, praying for sleep? Do you know what it's like to pray you don't wake up when the sleep does finally kick in? Do you know what it's like to feel indescribable disappointment when you do wake up?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. My decision was supposed to make things right for everyone. Not destroy me as a person. Not supposed to destroy my marriage. Not supposed to turn me from a fun loving, happy go lucky Mom into a shameful, angry, bitter, hopeless shell of one. But it did. Shit happens, sometimes life sucks. Who are you to judge? Sometimes life works out harder than we think, and we have to deal with that. Sometimes we can't. Sometimes...no matter how much your head tries to process the means to heal and move on, your heart fights tooth and nail to keep you suffering. That's where I am at. Believe me when I tell you I don't want to be, but at this time, I am. Be thankful and feel very lucky that you don't have to be here. It's like being in prison, on 23 hour a day lockdown, serving an unknown sentence. And the hour a day bit of peace doesn't run concurrent...a few minutes here, a few minutes there...never all together.
Do you know what it's like to not be able to talk about it to your loved ones? To be told you are betraying your family because of the regret and guilt you feel from giving one of them away? To forget about it. To get over it. To move on. That so and so is fine, and you're not, so there must be something wrong with you. That you are weak. That you are pitiful. That if you breathe a word about it, or shed a tear over it, you are ruining everything. That it must mean you hate your own children. To choke on the "what ifs", the coulda, shoulda, woulda's? Do you know what it's like to find joy in nothing. To stop dreaming in color. To be haunted by nightmares on the rare occasions you sleep? To not focus on a single thought longer than five minutes without it somehow linking back to this?
Do you realize that there is no "On/Off" switch? That no matter how much I wanted to wake up today and it not bother me any more...that it still did. I felt the same yesterday...the same a month ago, the same six months ago. Chances are, tomorrow will be the same.
Do you realize that just because I HATE the way my story turned out, that it doesn't mean I want to go rip Lauren out of her parent's arms? That for you to say, "Just Leave Them Alone!" is ridiculous. That I don't camp out in front of their house, or go trick or treat in their neighborhood, or throw the kids in the car and drive over to ask to use their pool? I don't overstep my boundaries. I don't question that they are her parents. I don't want to take her from them. I simply want peace that that's where she is. Don't ask me how to get it...I don't know. There is no outward physical manifestation of my sadness. There is me, this blog, and that's it.
Yes there should have been an agency, or a lawyer, or a facillitator, or a counselor, or something...but there wasn't. There isn't. There can't be. I can't just ask a therapist to sit and talk to me, or medicate me because I feel that's best for me. You need insurance, and I don't have it. Psychiatrists don't do pro bono work based on how crazy you are, or I would be in full time therapy...believe me. There's just this blog. So let me blog. Don't try and make it worse. I know there can't be much satisfation in kicking someone when they're down, and I am about six feet under from down. Stop kicking.
My pain is my pain. I will write about it because it's all I CAN do about it. I don't question your pain. Or your pain. Or you over there either...you're allowed to hurt. I promise I will leave you be.
Return the favor.