I felt as though I was having labor pains, but I was not giving birth. The pressure rose up from deep within my belly and felt as though a very large bubble was trying to move up a very small straw. They would begin as fear, pain or sadness and would then manifest from an emotion to a memory that had been covered up, tucked away, buried.
I gave my daughter up for adoption 14 and a half years ago and this past Mother’s Day I received an email from her – we are going to meet for the first time, in two weeks.
To say I am overjoyed, overwhelmed and completely ecstatic, in awe, humbled, grateful, blessed, happy and excited would be a bit of an understatement. Apparently, she is pretty thrilled as well. Her dad emailed me and said that she blasted it out to all of her facebook friends. She told me she posted this picture of me on her page:
Apparently her friends think I am “the coolest.”
Everyone keeps telling me, “Don’t worry, Jessica. She is going to love you.” Why am I so scared? Why is there a throbbing pain in my lower ribs right now where one of those big pressure bubbles got stuck? Why do I go into a cathartic state when I allow myself to ride the rollarcoster of time back to feeling the movement of her inside me, my hands on my belly. Months and months, possibly years of memories stuck way down deep in the recesses of my mind, because, well, the adoption agency counselors told me I need to treat it like she was dead, so I could move on with my life. Wrapping my brain around that, at that time was one of the most unnatural things I have ever done, besides leaving the hospital without my daughter.
I made a commitment to be responsible for my choice. Never to blame anyone or anything else. I chose to have unprotected sex with someone whom I had no intention of creating a life with; I chose adoption. I am pro-choice, you know. That is what that means. Even at 19 years of age, I consciously made all of those choices and I knew that no one was unfolding my life before me, but me.
I am pretty sure I drank a lot of alcohol for a long period of time. I got in trouble and had to wear one of those ankle bracelets and not leave my house for three months. I lied to everyone I loved, because I did not know what end was up. I quit college — even after they let me come back on my scholarship. I lived in Haiti for a little while. I found Jesus. I got kicked out of my church. I chose yoga over zoloft and never looked back.
I buried several painful years of my life, including being pregnant and spending a week in the hospital with my daughter because I had to have a C-Section way down deep inside. These memories are now resurfacing like a geyser of grief and shame. Is she going to ask me about this? What will I say? I have kept myself pretty busy over the last 14 years. I have never had less than three jobs at one time. And, I have never let my life get truly quiet enough to open the door, this door now bursting at the seams, to my own heart.
I gave my daughter up for adoption 14 and a half years ago, and this past Mother’s Day I received an email from her — we are going to meet for the first time, in two weeks.
I will share more here, as this journey unfolds.