Ceallaigh - posted on 05/18/2015 ( 1 mom has responded )
I always loved the beatles song,”till there was you" but never quite understood it until I gave my daughter up for adoption “ there were bells on the hill but I never heard them ringing, no I never heard them at all, till there was you” A voice like those bells ringing on the hillside puts me together. “hi mom” is like a piece by Paganini.
Every time I leave her, it is as though I am a collection of pieces, broken and scattered. As though my heart, that once beat in my chest, is wrenched from its seat, and as I drive away the pulling of the ligaments becomes so taught and sharp until at last, they snap. I am left numb and empty; pieces of flesh with moving machinery.
Every so often, I find myself struck by the supremely overwhelming feeling that I am amorphous. Like the clouds hovering on the troposphere, whisps that converge and part leaving us to find shape and form only to have it vanish with the gust of a breeze.
And yet, would I change it? No. I wouldn’t. I would choose the life she has for her a million times, knowing that as her mother my charge is to give her the best I can. The best I could give her was the Adam’s and my undying commitment to being there for her in any way.
You would think that loving Sophia so much would mean I would shout it from the rooftops that she is my daughter. It is not that simple. There has been a shame around it, an admittance that my life isn’t pretty or simple and to admit that meant I was exposed. You could hurt me. You could tell me how little value I had and I would believe you. Because not being able to care for your child makes you feel incredibly cheap, without much worth at all. Who could love someone so despicable? I understand why some people chose not to tell anyone, why the hide it. Why they tuck that pain away in to a crevice of their heart and hope that it dies from lack of air. The attachment to the fear that we will never be loved if people find out, becomes greater with every passing year. I lived in that state for almost 7 years. The truth becomes a petrified rock, immovable and stolid.
But that is all a lie.
The only one who believes we are inutile and base, is ourselves.
I know because last week I stood in front of a few hundred people and repeatedly told them about my daughter. They cried with me and thanked me. Not just for sharing but for being the mother that I am. All my friends, they thanked me. My family, they thanked me. I have not yet had someone call me the things I have called myself for 7 years. And now I am sharing this with you. I imagine I will get a few negative comments. I am okay with that. But perhaps I won’t. I will never know unless I do this thing, and what I want to know is, will you do it with me? Can you help me tell the story of adoption, and create something new around it?