Woke up this morning with a whole beautiful post rolling through my head, that I no longer remember. As if, as if born to? No. That was part of it though. As if my child had died? No. Where in the fog is it now?
I am a mother of loss. Lost my baby. How does my memory serve me? I lost my baby. She is grown now, and found, and writing about the war she was born into. She continually surprises me.
She was lost to me because I was unworthy. I was the “hippie mess” her aparents cleaned up after.
Ok, I remember recently promoting contact between natural mothers and their children – “open adoption”. But I also find “open adoption” revolting. It touches my unexpressed anger. I relinquished before “open adoption”. It was unknown. It was not an option. And I’m quite sure if it had been, if there had been any indication that contact with me would be possible, that my baby could continue to thrive even if she knew me; it would have meant that I could keep her. If my unworthiness, my shame, my being was allowed any contact at all with her precious being, I would have claimed it ALL.
She was ‘given’ to a ‘good family’ — An (infertile), ‘stable’, ‘well to do’ family that had already adopted a boy. She would have an older brother, something I used to wish for. She would have everything I couldn’t give her. They would raise her as if she was their own. She would be loved and cared for, educated and adored. She would be free of the stigma of my shame, of my abandonment by my family, by her father—of illegitimacy. She would never think of that shame because they would love her as I did, unconditionally, but with so much more wisdom. Anyway that’s the story I was given.
To truly give her the life she deserved, I had to be out of the picture. An amended birth certificate was provided, to replace her shameful origins, so she was free and clean. She was an innocent orphan girl. An orphan with no mother or father, taken in by the kindness of strangers to raise as if she had been born to them, as if I was dead.
As if I was dead. It’s a little clearer now. Post partum depression like I thought I would die. Seriously. I thought I would die. I woke up surprised many times. What’s going on? Why am I still alive? Fortunately I have a very sunny disposition, always seeing the bright side of things, sometimes to the frustration of my friends and family. I get a woman committing suicide in that situation. I understand how that could happen.