After The Divine Meltdown: I am no longer enamored by beliefs…
Here I am awkward and clumsy, like a newborn fawn wearing hiking boots covered in thick mud. Standing and falling, I write and delete. I write and hide the words in files that never see the light of day. I write more and tell people I will have a book not knowing if I can persistently gather the guts to ask for help publishing and then selling it. How could I share let alone sell my thoughts about this?
My tongue is tied to my teeth and words roll away like my metaphorical coconuts and waddling ducks who don’t know rows from tadpoles. I wish they were like Johnny Cash, walking the line with presence and undying loyalty. Not my words or nerves. They betray me with the random sporadic movements of hungry squirrels on busy asphalt roads. Here, there, and everywhere. I can’t keep up. Sometimes I wish they’d disappear the way my beliefs did.
I prefer plodding along on dirt paths over the roots and rocks rather than pushing myself into your awareness with these sentences. You have the right to ignore me just as so many did on my way to and out of the shattering. And yet, I desperately want you to hear me as I whisper sweet nothings about how nature nurtures me back to life. I don’t have to believe in trees. They just hear me breathing and I thank them for the fresh air. I immerse myself in the tree covered mountains to soothe my harried soul that used to scream about the trauma of my adoption experience.
“Adoption obviates the need for abortion.” In the political drama of it all, who cares what birthmothers have to say about that? Our children are gone as though kidnapped and yet we aren’t allowed to speak let alone grieve about it because we surrendered our rights along with our babies as though it was a choice. All the while, the weight is too much to bear alone. Some of us were like me, coerced into choosing this trail complete with the enforced silence.
We, I mean me. I. I fought my way out of the disorienting fog only to discover there is no light at the end of the tunnel. There’s just me walking alone into an unknown future. Year after year. The rest of my life.
Here I am, writing in little windows that frame my state of mind and support me enough to face another wave of grief and regret knowing my heart just wants to love openly. So, it does. Painfully it bumps against the open cage door not getting far from the threshold. These days I allow it to love clumsily and then quietly head back to safety in the dark small space where it has been accustomed to living. I’m beyond thinking about healing or thriving. I’m simply writing it out, not even wondering if there will ever be anything other than this disillusionment.
It has been thirty plus years and “letting go” is a myth I abandoned. I don’t remember when. How was I supposed to let my baby go then listen to those who say letting go is the answer? Good grief. This unresolvable disenfranchised complexity has taught me that toxic hope turns to ashes in my mouth. I do not speak of redemption or a fictional bright future together because reunion fairy tales sting like wasps masquerading like bees. No honey in those stories. Nothing to cut the bitterness.
Society celebrates the adoptive parents who triumphantly obtain their desired baby so wanted and loved. What does the baby say about losing the original mama? What does the mama say about her engorged breasts with no baby to suckle the milk? I’ll tell you. I’m still bleeding after all these years.
I thought the wound would be scared over by now, but time doesn’t heal this one. There is no compassion in the public realm, no scientific studies, academic discussions, nor therapeutic guidelines based on positive measurable outcomes. Peer led support groups are few and far between. There is an extensive crushing isolation sealed with a shame even Brene Brown won’t mention.
I embraced the solitary path so I wouldn’t have to feel the disagreeing stares of people who don’t understand that I too wanted my baby. I don’t celebrate adoption or abortion or so-called choices. I don’t speak out much anymore. I stopped actively changing laws. Surprisingly, I do still have one prayer. I pray to a God I don’t believe in that the entertainment people will someday put a trigger warning on their stupid adoption shows. I don’t believe they will. I don’t have to watch movies or tv and luckily my breath like a cool breeze hasn’t failed me yet. I don’t need honey. The milk dried up with my innocence. And I’m still walking with a heart bumping against the cage, guts hanging out, blood and tears flowing. I’ve decided that as long as I’m alive here and now in whatever state I’m in, I’ll keep walking with or without muddy boots and beliefs that once lit the way.
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By Beth Jaffe
https://bethjaffe.com/
Holy Lament member
