I’ve been wanting to write for a long time. I write these long, rambling Facebook posts and I imagine that my friends get so incredibly tired of reading them. LOL – no 140 character-living for me. I blogged a long time ago. The first blog on this page is actually from 2 years ago when I wanted to get started again and I rounded up all my old blog links. I just spent 2 hours (at work…it’s summer and slow…) reading my first blog when I was pregnant with Bailey. I’m glad I have them all in one place.
I’m rambling. I’m starting again. I seriously have no real purpose in writing this. I’m not going to try to make you see the world the way I see it or believe the things I believe. I am just going to write about what I’m thinking and take it from there. Comment if you want to join in the conversation (“conversation”…the one between me and myself…LOL). My only rule is kindness always. Or, said another way, don’t be a dick. If you disagree, cool. Express that in a thoughtful way and I’ll respond in kind. If you attack me or anyone else who may comment, I’ll call you out and then ban you. And swear at you. And probably tear apart your argument because I’m fucking intelligent as hell and can’t stand mean people. So there is that. The rules.
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So now that I have introduced this blog, I’m just going to dive in. I was thinking the other day that the best first blog post would have to be about C. C is my son. I adopted him on April 24, 2009, about 9 weeks after my then-wife gave birth to him. He lives in D.C. with the ex-wife and the ex’s current girlfriend. I live 584 miles north of him in Maine with his sister. It’s funny saying that out loud. Do you know how many times I have gotten that stricken look from strangers or acquaintances when they let that sink in and try to super-impose it onto their own lives. That “OMG! How could you possibly make that decision” face. I know it well. It used to make me feel guilty. That was when I was truly struggling with guilt over the decision. But I’m not now (more on that later), and so it just irritates me.
Of COURSE you can’t imagine leaving your child in another state and moving away. The reason you can’t imagine it is because, hopefully, you’ll never have to find the way through that shit. It’s a fucking awful, fucked-up decision to have to make. And it sounds SO GOOD to say out loud “I could never do that” as if you’re some teflon creature and the shit of life doesn’t sometimes level you…or worse. As if saying out loud that you might never find a time or space where the thing that makes the most sense means doing the thing that is the absolute hardest protects you or shields you from the possibility. Look, friends, I get it. I used to be you. I used to stand in my own silent judgement about all kinds of things, thinking I was superior or stronger or whatever. Really, though, all that we all are is hopeful in those moments. We’re hoping like hell that we never, ever have to make the choice.
So when I did have to make the choice, it was really fucking hard. I am making this my first post because I think that it’s what people wonder about the most. How could she? Why did she? Or maybe that’s my own voices talking. Maybe it’s a combination of both. But I don’t want there to be any confusion moving forward, because I’m pretty honest and this blog is likely to be pretty raw.
I did it because I had to. I did it because I was beyond clinically depressed, I was contemplating suicide, I was physically more unhealthy than I had ever been in my life and NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING good was going to come out of my staying in D.C. Dead, I would be nothing for C. I would be the thing that he and his sister had to survive. And as unhealthy as I was, there was nothing I could offer them. You know that whole thing on the airplane about putting on your own oxygen mask first? Because you can’t help shit all else if you’re fucking dead? Well, it was like that. I needed help and the people who knew how to get me what I needed and who loved me enough to pull me through that wretched dark place were here and not there. So I left. I survived.
And so did he. So did we. Our relationship is good. It’s stronger than it’s ever been. I actually have something to offer him. I’m not dead. I’m not as good as dead. I’m, dare I say it, happy…finally…for the first time in many years. I’m stable, strong and rocking my life. All of which means that I have something to give my children.
So you can look at it as if I left him. I guess that is one perspective and it’s not technically wrong. It’s certainly how I looked at for several months as I was wrestling my guilt. Or you can look at it like I finally made the right choices for him. The choice to be healthy, whole, and to find my stability and peace. If you don’t think that benefits him, you’re probably not a parent.
As for me and him – we have never been stronger. I have never been stronger. There is no better outcome than that.
A Beautiful Mess 