When I began this blog,  my first order of business was to sit down and write out “my story”. Truth is, when I chose the domain, and decided that perhaps, maybe, sort of, I wanted to start blogging about my adoption, I had no idea what that would look like for me.  Getting this domain, I believe was part of the realization that I had a voice, and I needed it to be heard. That 17 year old girl was getting restless, and was, in essence, I believe, sick of waiting for me to finally “get it”.  She was pacing in the back of my mind, I could feel her tossing and turning, climbing the walls, trying to get my attention.  When May hit last year, I stopped refusing her, and let her find her way to the surface.  We were both blasted out of the Adoption Fog and into the glaring, harsh light of What Really Happened To Us. Right on time too, I suppose.  Telling my story seemed to be the least of my worries in those earlier moments; I was stumbling to figure out how to how the hell to finally talk about the adoption. If you knew me three years ago, any adoption talk was off-limits, and strictly forbidden.

Because writing or talking about it scared the shit out of me. It meant actually dealing with the reality of what had happened to me, so many years before.

For the last year, the My Story tab has sat, looking well organized, but the contents, were, according to the caption, “Coming Soon”.

Here’s the thing, I could give a reader’s digest version of what happened, but the gist of it is all over my blog; I ended up pregnant, was forced to relinquish by my parents and their agency (LDSFS), spent 8 years in a deep Adoption Fog, and now I write to help me figure out the tough stuff.

But really, it’s so much more then all of that. So much more, and if you’ve spent any time reading my posts, you’ll know that too.

My story is not just one of a couple of formulas, that serve to get someone from point A to point B. It’s complex, it’s frustrating, and it’s so much more then words on a computer screen. I wonder if I will ever be able to write the full version of “my story”. I’ve tried several times in several different methods, and I always stop. I always quit when I get to the core of the anger, the hurt, and the pain. Writing about that? It would mean uncovering some tough, sticky, awful gunk. For the moment,  for the first time in this adoption experience, I’m trusting my gut, and following the path my heart carves out for me, and really listen to the words that ache to flood from my fingers.  In doing this, I’m telling my story. In doing this, I am piecing my own story together slowly.

And we all know, that I’m still in the middle of my story.

I will live this life, this story until the day I die.  This story doesn’t have an ending, and I struggle to think it ever will. Adoption, the relinquishment of my own child, will last a lifetime. Something they never figured to tell me. Something that is so obvious, but in the heat of coercion, depression, rejection, and desperation, seeing the end of the day is even too much, let alone seeing into the deep future.

They told me that I would stop thinking of him one day. Now, I don’t know how they could possibly tell a lie so grand. They said that I would only feel a slight twinge of regret, but it would be replaced with the immensity of my selflessness. Another lie. They didn’t choose to tell me that the story did not end with the day in the hospital, or when the “openness agreement” ended at 8 years old. It was all just the beginning. A lifetime story of wondering, of worrying, of tiptoeing as not to set of the ticking time bombs. They didn’t tell me I would be dressed in shame, cloaked with invisibility. A life time of helplessness, and a life time of feeling so very different then the girl that I was before The Kiddo was placed in my arms.

This blog is my story. It is my song, and while it’s not the picture of societal rainbows, and unicorns and adoption, it’s mine. It belongs to me. The feelings I discuss, the opinions I share, the heartache I admit. All of it is mine, and all of that is an intensely integral part of what makes this adoption experience all my own.

Mine is a story of heartache, of deep profound loss, of loving, of wanting and rejection. A story of introspection, and spiritual questioning. It’s a story of coercion, and manipulation. It’s a story, a warning of the breaking of family. It’s painful, and maybe, beyond all these intense feelings there is a lighter side. For now, this is all I have ever known when it comes to adoption, and it’s the side of adoption we rarely speak of.  So instead, I will, and I will do it with as much grace as I can muster.

That 17 year old girl lost her voice, and for her I tell my story.