Giving my son to theoretical strangers changed my identity.
When the “excitement” of pregnancy was over & my son went home with other people, when the papers were signed, when friends & family went home to go back to their lives, I was left alone. With me. It was all so very anti-climatic. I did a lot of “Now, what the frak?”. Everything had changed. Everything. There was no going back to “before Kid”.
I wanted to go back to work ASAP, but I was convinced to take the full 6 weeks maternity. “To heal”. And if by healing they meant drinking a lot of beer, playing a lot of video games & going to New Orleans for a week, well, that’s what I did exactly.
But almost 14 years has passed.
My hindsight is magnificent, showing a wide bell curve of how I’ve felt about adoption almost identical to how I’ve felt about my role in it. How I compartmentalized adoption (and many other things) in order to make my life tolerable: Woman, friend, coffee drinker, bad art creator, employee, wife, birthmother, blogger.
Finally, at 38, I discovered that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. My Jr High math teacher would be proud. Aristotle, too. And my therapist.
There’s enough room inside my head for all the parts to live harmoniously. Or something reasonably close to harmonious. Not to say that one part won’t co-mingle angrily with another periodically.
It’s amazing to feel whole after so long of feeling fractured, broken, because of choices I made X-amount of years ago.
Have a happy & safe new year. See you soon.