They say that love can heal the broken
They say that hope can make you see
They say that faith can find a Savior
If you would follow and believe
With faith like a child
-Jars of Clay, “Like a Child”

I’m currently procrastinating the actual finishing of the packing process for our annual trip to church camp. I know, I know. The world laughs when I say such a thing, claiming that church camp is just for kids. I need ten days (eight days, this year) every year in which to get away from the hectic nature, the true chaos of the life in which I live. I need that week and some change to re-prioritize my life, to find my way back to the meaning of it all.

I don’t often talk about my faith. I don’t often find that I need to as, so rarely, do I call it into question anymore. It’s simply a part of my life, my being, my soul. I study my Bible. I attend Bible studies. I listen to Christian music. I don’t often think to write about these things because they’re just a part of what I do, who I am. I don’t write about my morning ritual of waking, going to the bathroom, staring in the mirror at yet another new zit and brushing my teeth before returning to my room to make the bed and read my devotional… because it’s all just second nature.

Recently, however, certain things have been weighing heavily on my heart. Not about my faith, exactly, but the faith of those around me. To tie it to adoption (and thus let other people off the hook), it sometimes catches in my throat, the thought that maybe the Munchkin won’t know the Lord. And then, reality smacks me upside the head and I realize that my parented sons might not either. Before it all gets overwhelming, I just have to give it over. I can’t worry too much. I just have to live this life as I can, be an example, answer when asked and, of course, pray.

I was once berated for admitting that I had hope that my daughter would one day follow Christ. I don’t understand why that person felt it necessary to be so nasty with me, to me. I didn’t say I wouldn’t love her if she chooses another path; I will. How can I not love her? She is my daughter, despite the legalities of it all. I love her with an unconditional love. Just the way I love my boys, even on their very worst days. (Today being one, mind you.) I can have hopes and dreams for my children, can’t I? I hope that… maybe… someday… she’ll find a faith that isn’t damning or judgmental or that makes her feel guilty… but one that wipes her shame, eases her fears and comes to her as a second nature.

And if that makes me a bad person in the eyes of the world, I am okay with that. I relinquished my rights to my child in hopes that she would have a better life, one that I didn’t believe I could provide at the time. I didn’t relinquish my right to hope and dream… and pray. And so, I do.

I do.

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[Back the 25th. No new user comments can be approved before that time.]

To see Munchkin become a happy adult.

It doesn’t differ much in my goal(s) for my boys. The wording is changed as for the children under my roof, the wish is that I can “help them grow to be happy adults.” Perhaps, in all reality, I could have left that wording in the wish for Munchkin. My existence, my presence, my answers and my love do, in fact, help in that end result. But it’s touchy, the realities of open adoption.

I want people to understand that I am not just sitting here, taking the easy road while her parents deal with the ins and outs of the tough stuff of raising a child. I hate that episode of 20/20 with Barbara Walters and how it portrayed the open adoption lifestyle as such. “All the glory of parenting without the grit.” There’s grit over here. Trust me. But no, I don’t have to say no when it’s tough and I don’t sit at the hospital. But I have a purpose in her life. I do. Ask her. She’ll tell you.

But something else came to mind as I actually sat down to write this post, about twelve hours after my initial answer formed. It’s a bit off the beaten track but, well, that’s how I live my life. Another wish of mine would be that:

By living our open adoption life, others will see that the threat and mislabeled confusion about birth parents, adoptive parents, open adoption and adoptees rights are off base and, as such, will continue to melt away.

I would never form a family unit of our very nature for this reason. I would never go as far as separating more children in the name of a social or scientific experiment (ala Identical Strangers). However, this is the life we are living. I hope, by doing the best we can (and, yes, messing up some here and there along the way), that we can be an example. I’m hoping, of course, that we are a good example, not a negative one. I also hope that my speaking out on the need for adoption reforms and the unnecessary separation of various families will eventually reach a bigger audience but I think living our family life as we do might speak louder than I ever would be able to.

And I’m loud.

So, yes, I really only have two wishes. Those wishes, of course, speak volumes about expectations that things will continue to go well, be worked through when they don’t go well and continue through my daughter’s step into adulthood. I thought those kind of wishes went without saying. I have bigger fish to fry.

But this blog? It’s always been radical.

In fact, at various points in time, it’s been too radical for public consumption. People don’t want to hear a story of a mother who was very sick while pregnant and got eaten up by an unethical agency intent on making money. People don’t want to hear the story of the grief and loss that accompany the relinquishment of a child. After all, I deserved that pain, didn’t I? I chose to open my legs. I chose to “give away” my baby. This is all my fault, after all. Why don’t I just shut my trap? People don’t want to hear about a birth mother who isn’t a crack addict, a whore, homeless or somehow less than them. It makes them uncomfortable that I’m a great mother, a hardworking writer and a pretty darn good cook to boot. They squirm in their seats and realize that they’re not better than me and that makes them question the industry, society, themselves. They need for me to be something else, something less than what I am. They can’t handle the truth that I bring to the table.

I’m too radical for the mommyblogger world.

This blog is not accepted as a “mommy blog” despite the fact that it falls under that umbrella. My input is not welcome. I have nothing of value to say because it’s too scary, too real. Of course, I know all of this to be hogwash. I know those that have come to me to ask questions, to find support. I know the lives that have been changed because I’ve dared to speak my story, to be a radical, open adoption birth mother giving a voice to the need for adoption reforms.

I know other mothers like me, not just birth mothers, who are pushing back against a world that doesn’t want them to speak their stories. They also lead rather calm, normal lives. They don’t compromise who they are, what they do. And yet, Dawn isn’t shunned because she’s the adoptive mom, the savior in the equation. Until she comes to our defense and then she gets the same hate mail.

I still wonder when a birth mother will be allowed to stand on a stage at a blogging conference and talk. And it’s not for lack of trying. We’re not wanted, despite being mothers and bloggers. We’re told to sit down, shut up. When I mention adoption over on the family blog, like in my birth story, people don’t know what to say. They click away. What do you say to someone that you look down on (for no good reason)? And yet I’m invited to speak at adoption conferences because I’m a well-accepted blogger to those people. But to mommybloggers? Unacceptable.

I’ll keep writing here. I’ll keep pushing back against a society, against a blogosphere that wants me to be quiet. It’s what I do. It’s how I heal. It’s how I make sense of what has happened, how I push to ensure that other mothers are not treated like me as they make their way through the adoption industry. It’s how I find the strength to go on.

For a very long time I was defined by the title of Birth Mother. Or First Mother. Or however you want to spell it, space it or say it. I was defined by it and I couldn’t get out of the box that definition provided. More over, I needed to be defined by that title for a time. However, I couldn’t see when I no longer needed that definition to rule my life.

When I was considering placement, I didn’t know to be ashamed of my decision. It wasn’t until the immediate aftermath in the hospital and the way our Pastor treated both me and my family that I realized that birth mothers are not applauded like the pro-life camp would have you believe. I was shunned. I was cursed at, told that I was a horrible human being for “giving my baby away.” As such, I found a need to reinvent the title and role of birth mother. I needed to be seen as a remarkable human being who endured a tough choice and came out on top. I needed people to see that I wasn’t a crackwhore, that I wasn’t a slut. I needed people to validate my decision and I needed to validate the title of birth mother all at the same time.

As the walls began to crumble around my denial, the realities of my decision settling like dust into every corner of my life, I found that I couldn’t get away from the title. I began to feel this intensely after my firstborn son was home and hungry for my parenting knowledge. Here I was, mothering this tiny (though, he wasn’t ever tiny, was he?) little baby boy and I was still being ruled by the title of birth mother. But I was a mother! And I wanted to be recognized as one! And most people did. I, instead, was unable to accept my new role as mother as a separate title. I was unable to separate parts of my life. While they are twined together in some fashion, they are also remarkably different roles. My grief was affecting my parenting and, looking back, I am able to admit that fact. I don’t like it, like that it is part of my history, but it did.

Once in therapy, I was able to begin separating from the title of birth mother. As I learned the many facets of who I was, I didn’t need to be The Best Birth Mother In The History of All Birth Mothers. I spent less time online arguing with people who felt threatened by my presence in the adoption world. I spent less time being angry with an unethical agency that will never change. I spent less time comparing myself to other mothers, finding validation my son’s smile, in his love. I spent more time listening to my husband and less time listening to those who needed to cut me down to validate their own life story. I needed professional help to get to that point, to let go of things, to move forward and enjoy my life as a whole, not just as a part.

I am not just a birth mother. In fact, I am not just a mother. Not just a wife. A daughter. A friend. A writer. A singer. I am so many things in so many ways. I am proud of how all of those things come together to make me… me. No one has lived this life that I’m living. They may have made similar decisions. We may have strikingly similar stories even. But this is me. This is my life, my decisions, my unique journey.

I am not just a birth mother though I always will be. I am not just a mother though I always will be. I have learned to merge roles, to set them aside when I need to be someone else for a moment. I have learned to accept how my roles have formed me but still know that they don’t define me.

I may be a birth mother but I’m so much more. So much more.

And then the anxiety started to build as I knew, without looking, that the number of unread posts was growing. And growing.

I started visiting blogs that I wanted to visit. I read what I wanted to read, ignoring my Google Reader button my toolbar. Then I got my new laptop… and I didn’t even put the Google Reader button on my toolbar. It’s funny, really. I had some time to write and read and generally do things other than… read blog.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading blogs. I love it. In fact, I really thrive on it. But I went through a phase where I subscribed to every single adoption blog ever written. I even subscribed to Google and Yahoo! searches on adoption so that any time anyone on the internet mentioned the words adoption, birth mother or open adoption, my Google Reader got a little alert with a link where I would hop over to the blog or news article and, if it was the former, I would subscribe.

For awhile, I read in earnest. I read everything, beginning to end. I frequently commented. I linked. I stumbled. I tweeted. And then I hit a brick wall. I became overwhelmed and over-stimulated by adoption speak. I didn’t want to consider any more of the ethical implications of the industry. I didn’t want to listen to parents on either side of the triad refuse to consider anything but their own experience. And, really, selfishly, I didn’t want to hear that my experience was invalid by people who couldn’t accept that differing experiences are okay, that they’re good. I didn’t want to bury my head in the sand and ignore everything, despite what my subject line says. But I just needed to concentrate on something other than All Adoption, All the Time.

And so, just this past week, I deleted every last blog in my Reader. In fact, the first time I tried, the process failed. I almost took that as a sign but, I hit the button again and everyone flew out the window. I deleted all of my folders and tags and started anew. I added friends first, wanting to keep up to date with their lives. Then I added some fun things, some blogging things. And, eventually, I added some adoption specific blogs back to the list. Not all of them. In fact, not many. I do imagine the list will grow but, right now, it sits at a manageable number.

I think I know why I had to make this change, to limit how much adoption is in my life and how much other stuff sucks up my time. I think, however, the reason is based on a whole other post that is still forming in my head. In short, however, my life is less ruled by adoption nowadays. I’m finding a good balance. I like it, my life, this balance.

In closing, all I meant to say is that if you haven’t noticed my IP address on your blog in quite some time, I’m not snubbing you personally. Please go ahead and send me links (via email or tweets) if you think that I should know or respond to something of adoption importance. I’m sure, as I continue on in my return to Google Reading, I will be adding more adoption specific bloggery to my list.

Maybe…

We’ve been asked to write about the fathers involved in our open adoptions for this second round of the Open Adoption Roundtable. It’s a kind of complicated segment of our open adoption. When I first considered what to write about, I thought of Munchkin’s biological and adoptive fathers. And then I realized that our story is shaped by so many other fathers.

I loved my daughter’s birth father once upon a memory. For giving me the most beautiful girl known to mankind, I will always love him. We weren’t a match. Our personalities were similar though we liked very different things. He’s a numbers and math and money type of man while I’m a music and words and not-money type of woman. Despite those differences, we were both intensely passionate. We were both extremely stubborn. When we wanted something, nothing stood in our way. At one point in time, that want was for each other. Things changed as we changed. We grew apart. We moved on. Timing of life threw us back together and a baby was conceived, carried and born. He wasn’t around during the second and third half of that process. I was angry for a very long time but I forgave him even before he apologized. I had to. Every time I looked in her eyes, he was there. Every time she laughed, I heard him. I couldn’t find it in me to be angry. Even though she wasn’t with me, without him, she wouldn’t have been there at all.

I first clicked with J, Munchkin’s adoptive dad, more than D. Women, by nature, are more stand-offish at first. Men, however, have nothing to lose. He was positive, encouraging and easy to talk to. Over the years, D and I became close and it wasn’t necessary to filter conversation through him. However, I still loved his ability to lighten the mood when necessary. And, in open adoption, it is sometimes necessary. Things can get heavy from time to time. Laughter is good. I am glad that my daughter has that reminder in his life, to laugh and not take everything so seriously. It’s an important lesson.

I have a memory of my father from our time in the hospital with the Munchkin. He is sitting next to me, to the left of my hospital bed. He is holding Munchkin’s head in his hands, her body stretched along the length of his forearm. She is small; he is so big. His eyes scrunch like they do when he is trying not to break down into tears. I want to look away. I want him to have his moment, to be alone with it. But I can’t look away. I stare and let it be permanently branded into my heart, my soul, my being. My father with my daughter. My father with his first grandchild, unknown at that time she could be his only granddaughter. (My brother still possesses this possibility.) The memory is with me to this day. My father is a strong, wonderful man who loves with his whole being. I learned a lot about him that day, in that moment.

My husband loved the Munchkin before she was born. For those who don’t know our story, we started dating after the Munchkin was conceived. He wanted to be there, to love her. Life got in the way when my kidney threw a wrench in the works. I was instructed to make my decision as if he didn’t exist. I hurt him by doing that; I saw the tears and held him as he cried when I came home from the hospital without her. He doesn’t cry like the men in my family, but he did that night. I wonder, at times, if I’ll ever forgive myself. But then, oh then, I remember him on that first visit, lifting her into the air. I remember him holding me in our hotel room. I remember him encouraging me, that first Mother’s Day. He’s always been my biggest cheerleader. He’s always been my biggest fan. He’s always been the best father I have known, even before he had boys of his own to chase around the living room and toss into the air, laughter filling the room and my heart. I don’t know how I lucked out and found him. I don’t know why he puts up with me in the summer when I’m too hot and, as such, too cranky. But he does.

And, now, we have M added to the equation. He’s quiet. Even more than my husband. But I’ve seen him with Munchkin and JD. Moreover, I’ve seen him with Munchkin, JD, BigBrother and LittleBrother. He can handle it. I felt fine when he was watching them all. It’s been a weird mental adjustment, of course. I didn’t choose M to be in my daughter’s life. He wasn’t on that profile. There was no way to know he would be someone I would have close contact with as I was planning to place my daughter for adoption. But he’s adjusted well to the idea of open adoption, spending a very crazy weekend at my house. He’s someone I can tell that loves my daughter, loves her brother and loves their mother. I can’t imagine someone else I’d rather have in her life in this regard. While it isn’t necessary for them to move forward with their life together, I give my full blessing to D and M. I hope that they find the happiness that I know my husband and I have found in one another, in our life together.

I think she’s lucky, that Munchkin, for having so many fathers in her story. A biological father who gave her a strength she won’t fully understand until she begins fighting battles on her own. An adoptive dad who gives her humor and the reminder that laughter is good. A “bonus dad” in my husband, who loves her more than any of us can understand. A biological grandfather who, if things had gone differently, would have taught her to throw a ball just as he taught me. And a stepdad-to-be who was thrown into the crazy world of open adoption and didn’t bat an eyelash. Yes, she’s lucky. So very lucky.

This is the reason, of course, I have often chosen not to be vocal about my title of “birth mother” with those I am just meeting or, even more so, those with whom I went to various schools or camps with in our younger days. In case you didn’t read my first paragraph, that’s simply because women are mean and nasty. I don’t even think we mean to be in some cases; it just happens. Instead of dealing with their own emotional issues concerning a subject that touches them in some way, they project onto other women. It breaks my heart to pieces when I see other women tearing each other down for little to no good reason. But it happens. And so I often keep my mouth shut.

But I chose to open my mouth, nice and wide, concerning my birth stories. Still posted on Discovery Health’s website for Baby Week, I’m continuing to get an influx of random traffic. I’d be willing to bet many of those people hadn’t considered they’d be reading an adoption story to boot. But they are. While some bloggers have received 200+ comments, I’ve only received a few. No one ever knows what to say to a birth mother. Does my adoption plan with one negate all of my stories? Probably. Oh well. It doesn’t negate them for me and that’s what matters.

To make it all the more interesting, this is the year of my ten year class reunion. (Dear Dawn, no comments as to how I’m a baby.) As such, I’ve reconnected with a lot of old friends via Facebook. (Does anyone even use MySpace anymore? I’m considering deleting that account.) As I finally figured out how to make blog work with NetworkedBlogs on Facebook, quite a few of those old friends, people who didn’t know my adoption story, clicked on over and read about the births of all three of my living children. It could have turned out nasty.

They said the loveliest things. They warmed my heart. They renewed my faith that people without experience in the area can refrain from sticking their feet directly into their mouths.

To boot, my father-in-law brought it up at my oldest son’s t-ball game just yesterday. He mentioned the picture of all three kids together and said, “She has your smile.” An acknowledgment of such a thing by someone who didn’t have to acknowledge any of it made my heart fill with pride. And, you know, she does have my smile.

I ramble like this because I’m starting to care, less and less, what other peoples’ opinions are regarding our adoption story. I don’t really rejoice when someone says something nasty to me but I’m learning how to let it roll off my back. There are those who don’t like our story for one reason or another. Perhaps we just make them uncomfortable or bring up issues that they don’t want to deal with on their own time, much like some of the current arguing on the internet. I know, simply by existing, our family has made others question their own decisions. But that’s no my problem nor my responsibility.

And I’m learning to be okay with that fact.

Apparently 605 posts worth. With this, 606.

The decision to place my firstborn was not one that I made lightly. I did make it, however, without all of the information necessary to make a fully informed decision due to an agency with no concern about my rights, my daughter’s rights or the ethics that should be involved in adoption. I do believe (or, maybe, I have to believe) that, in the end, everything is working as best as it can work. The truth remains though that for birth mothers and fathers who have chosen the route of open adoption, the story doesn’t end when everyone leaves the hospital.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not her everyday Mom. I don’t rush her to the emergency room or sit by her bedside when she is severely ill with pneumonia. I don’t get rewarded with kisses at bedtime every night or hugs every morning. I don’t have to make the tough decisions or the tough calls, present and yet to come. But I do have a place in her life. Ask her and she will tell you.

She doesn’t call me mom or mother, though she’s tried it on for size. She calls me by my first name. She uses the term birth mother when talking about how she came from my belly as she does on occasion. She has no confusion as to who her “real” parents are just as she has no confusion about who her future stepdad is in her life. Or her grandparents. Or her many different brothers, the “half”-brothers brought to her by myself and my husband included. She simply has a lot of people to love her, to encourage her and to reassure her that she was always wanted, always loved.

I have moments and pangs of sadness, frustration and everything else. However, I’ve also reached a level of peace. I brought a little “get-over-myself” into my life and have been really enjoying the ride as of late. I still will fight for ethical adoption reform. I will still push for adoptees to gain access to their Original Birth Certificates. I will still speak for those who are, all too often, refused a voice in the public conscience. But I’m not going to let the nay-sayers who need to believe (for whatever their own personal reasons are) that I don’t have an important role in my daughter’s life move me back to a negative place. I’ve been there; it’s no fun. I prefer this place. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies but it’s not gloom and doom either. It’s a nice environment (not too hot, not too cold) with the occasional rain storm. And, therefore, maybe just a rainbow or two.

I’m confident in the many roles that I now serve in my life. I am a pretty darn good wife even if my house is messy. I am a pretty darn good everyday mom to our two sons even if their toys are still strewn about after bedtime as I work on this blog post. I am a pretty darn good writer even though sometimes I misspell words and scramble for deadlines. I am a pretty darn good birth mother even if the rest of the world wants me to fade into the woodwork. And I like it all this way… maybe minus the mess. I really need to go clean.

But, a word of closing:

No, our story didn’t end the day that I gave birth to the Munchkin. Or the day that we all left the hospital and drove in separate directions. Or the day that I signed the Termination of Parental Rights. Or the day that I, once again, signed the same Termination of Parental Rights due to the ineptitude of the attorney involved. Or the day that the adoption was finalized. Or on her first birthday. Or any subsequent birthday. It won’t end that first time that she tells me she doesn’t like me and she’s glad that I gave her to better parents. It won’t end the first time she turns to me and says, “Thank you.” Even if, Heaven forbid, she cuts me out of her life at some point, the story won’t end. I will continue to live my life and make my decisions that have the best interest of all of my children at heart. That includes living my life in the best possible manner in hopes that they won’t be too embarrassed by me well after the “oh-my-gosh-my-mom-is-a-loser!” phase passes. I promised to be available for life; I will be. I promised to love her for life; I have never once stopped.

Our story continues. It encounters changes. And then it evolves. Just like every other family.

The article is somewhat disheartening. I didn’t start this blog about our adoption journey because I wanted to be famous or because I needed to be financially independent or for anything other than the simple fact that I needed to write my adoption journey. Writing is a part of who I am from the inside to the outside. It’s what I do. It is what I have always done. (I just recently found a binder full of horribly written poetry dating back to sixth grade. And, no, I won’t be sharing it with you.)

My need to write, in order to process and heal, created quite a following here for awhile. And then came my period of quiet, of silence if you will. As things took unexpected turns in our adoption journey and as I dealt with all of those changes while simultaneously battling postpartum depression, I didn’t have as much to write. And during that time, I didn’t worry about my numbers (they went down) or my so-called fame (because those who cared stuck around) or anything of that nature.

Like my life, this blog has experienced highs and lows. I treasure the moments in which someone has related to what I said but, at the same time, I treasure the posts in which no one commented but I made an exceptional stride toward my healing. This blog has been what it has needed to be for me at every step and with every change in my life. It has been an emotional sounding board. It has been a place to promote ethical changes in adoption reform. It has been a place to support adoptees in their fight for their Original Birth Certificates. It has been a place where I have seen my writing grow and change. More over, it has been a place where I have seen myself grow and change. I have grown into my role as a birth mother. I have grown into my own skin. (I like me, guys. I’m pretty awesome!)

This blog does not make me rich. Neither does the family blog. In fact, my gig over at Adoption Blogs doesn’t rake in a whole lot of dough. But all three blogging experiences brings all kinds of different things to my life. Here, though the words have been slow as of late, I am free to explore, to play with words. While I’m more to-the-point at the family blog, I am a bit more abstract here. Where I give more fact than emotion at Adoption Blogs, I get to the core of the emotion over here. When I put it all together, I am a whole person on paper, or, rather screen.

Blogging shouldn’t be about what you can get. Blogging should be about what you can give. I’ve given all of me, I’ve shared all of me. And since my love for blogging is more of a love for writing, for words, I don’t see the giving ending any time soon. There is an ebb and a flow but not an end to my love for writing.

Looking back to the time when you were thinking about open adoption but hadn’t yet lived it out, what one thing would you tell your past self about open adoption, if you could?

The obvious answer would be to tell my twenty-two year old, knees-shaking-scared self that I would be just fine and that placement was unnecessary. However, I don’t think that’s what this question is asking. Or, rather, I will go on with the idea that this question is asking me something more than just an opportunity for a complete rewriting of history. Instead, I will go along with the idea that I can only tell my twenty-two year old, knees-shaking-scared self just one thing about open adoption.

But what one thing?

Do I point out to myself that the agency with which I am dealing is unethical? How does that change anything or make it any easier? It doesn’t. Do I point out to myself that her parents will someday divorce? That doesn’t change the fact that they remain the one and only other family I could have/would have chosen to parent my daughter. What exactly, over the past six years now, as I had surgery and contacted the agency six years ago next month, is the thing that made all the difference? The thing that, known earlier, would have been of benefit?

I would have told my twenty-two year old, knees-shaking-scared self to get my doopa into therapy. Pronto. And, knowing my twenty-two year old, knees-shaking-scared self, I would have rolled my eyes at this twenty-six year old, confident but oh-so-boring version of myself and said, “Shrinks are for weak people. I’m strong.” You know, despite the shaking knees and such.

But I believe that if I had been offered counseling or, at the very least, been counseled/instructed to find counseling of my own either prior to placement or in that whirlwind of the immediate aftermath, things could have been very different. I don’t even mean that I would have chosen to parent. I mean that certain things would have been properly addressed much earlier on, thus saving not only myself some heartache but everyone from not-so-fun things like miscommunication and not knowing what to do next.

I do believe if I would have gotten counseling in that first post-placement year, things would have been different for me. Emotionally. Physically, even. Spiritually as well. Emotionally, I would have been able to accept my grief and begin to process it earlier than I did. Physically, after the birth of my firstborn son, I might not have had a panic attack as I was overwhelmed with the guilt that I didn’t nurse the Munchkin, thus ruining the nursing relationship with my son. Spiritually, I wouldn’t have been so mad at God for so long.

Relationship wise, if I had been in therapy, I think a lot of the burden would have been taken off of my Husband’s shoulders in those first two years. He bared it gracefully, of course, as he always does… but it shouldn’t have been his burden to carry me for that long. I think, as well, that the relationship between myself and D would have been much more even and stable. In those first two years and even that first full year when I started therapy, I didn’t react as well as I should have (or do now). I sometimes took the news of things and reacted much more strongly than a situation really called for due to the pent up and unaddressed emotions that I had no idea what to do with or why they even existed. I said hurtful things. And though I always apologized (and was always forgiven), I hate that I said some of those things. I hate that I wasn’t able to properly react to situations, that I wasn’t able to treat them as I would have wanted to be treated.

Since starting therapy in those months since my first son was born, my life has changed. The fact that my anxiety disorder was addressed, treated chemically for awhile and then continuously treated with the proper techniques has changed my life in so many ways. The me of five years ago couldn’t have spoken at the National Adoption Conference. (First off, I would have only had glowing things to say if I could have opened my mouth to say them. Oh, denial.) I am stronger. I am more confident. And, yes, time and age do that as well. But being able to have a proper outlet for my fear, my anxiety, my worry, my anger, my sadness and even my joy has allowed me to properly nourish the relationships I have with other people, both inside and outside of adoption.

And so, yes, if I had to tell my twenty-two year old, knees-shaking-scared self one thing, it would be to find my therapist (because she’s so darn fabulous) immediately. She, herself, hasn’t changed my life. She has taught me, myself, how to change my life. And because of that, those around me are treated to a better, more whole me. I can’t imagine who I would be (or where I would be) if certain things wouldn’t have been addressed or my anxiety wouldn’t have been treated.

I am a better person today because I knew that I needed that help.

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[More links on this topic can be found here.]