Speaking, and Happiness

It feels strange not to be blogging every day. I feel as though I'm forgetting something important.

I spoke at group tonight, as scheduled. Only a few people came, which sort of irritated me. That nasty little insecure part of my brain thinks it's because no one likes me and no one wanted to hear anything I had to say. I sit and listen to everyone else talk every single week and no one could be bothered to come the one week I'm actually going to say something?

On top of that, one woman in group just had her baby and placed her a few days ago, and another gave birth a few hours before group, so the people who were there were excited to talk about those women. There was talk of going to visit one of them in the hospital. Part of me wanted to say, "Fine, y'all go see her, I'll just go home since no one cares about me anyway." No one was very excited when Roo was born. No one jumped to come visit me at the hospital and tell me I was wonderful and brave.

I hate it when I get that way. I hate feeling small and insecure and unimportant and petty and jealous. But I felt that way just the same. I was super nervous. I'm a bit odd when it comes to public speaking. I could comfortably address the entire United Nations, but put me in a room with a handful of people with whom I am acquainted, and I panic. I don't like people staring at me and analyzing my every word. I don't like being the center of attention. I cried a few times. I knew I would. I passed around pictures. Everyone said Roo was beautiful (not really news to me, but always nice to hear). After I spoke, we all sat around and talked for a while. It was nice to talk. I don't get a lot of human interaction. It's easy to forget how nice it is to talk to people about silly little things and to laugh and ... relax. I'm not very good at relaxing. I'm good at being lazy, but that's not the same thing. Even when I'm being lazy, I'm not relaxed.

I always worry when I open up to people like I did tonight. My experience has been that when I open up to people, they decide they don't like me, or they use something I've told them against me. That sort of experience isn't too good for the old self-esteem, and mine was never great to begin with. It was strange to open up, to be myself, and have people tell me they like me, that they think I am clever and funny. My first instinct is to brush them off, assuming they're lying to be kind. I decided I'm going to try something new, though. I think that when I get a compliment, I'm going to repeat it to myself until I start to believe it.

So here goes: I am amazing. I am an amazing person and I have done amazing things and I am a better person for it.

I'm still not sure I believe it. I want to believe it. I want to be happy. I'm not sure I've ever wanted that before. Depression has always been normal for me - not just normal, but comfortable and familiar and consistent, like mental Tupperware. I didn't like being depressed but I was used to it, and it was hard to want to be happy because I didn't think I could be. I think I'm starting to believe that I can be happy - I want to be happy, and I can get there. I do know that I am almost happy now. It's funny, because I've never had less to be happy about in my life, but I've never been happier. It's nice to be happy. I want to keep it up.

The End … and the Anniversary of the End

I made it! It’s the end of the month and I’ve blogged every day. I’m proud of myself. I wasn’t sure I could do it.

I don’t know why, but I am the sort of person who always remembers dates. I can remember dates from seemingly insignificant or odd events. I can tell you my childhood best friend’s birthday. The date I graduated from high school. The last time I threw up. My first day of college. And I can tell you that today marks one year since the last time I saw H in person.

I know I said I was done with him but I think it was stupid of me to think that, okay, I’ve figured out this issue and that one, and now I’m done. I had a baby with him! I will never be done.

It seems strange to me that a year has passed. But then sometimes it seems like I hardly remember seeing him at all. I’ve forgotten exactly how tall he is, the exact shade of brown his eyes are, what his voice sounds like. And the more I think about him the more I realize how very little I ever knew about him. When I was putting together information for P and M, I was embarrassed to realize how much I didn’t know about H. Some of it’s not my fault. When I found out I was pregnant, I tried to get information. My doctor wanted a health history for both of us and I asked H if anything ran in his family. He never told me. He didn’t seem to care. I don’t think he ever really cared – about me, or about the baby.

I’m almost glad a year has passed. Every week that went by without seeing him helped give me perspective and strengthened my resolve to keep him and his alcohol-soaked apathy out of my life. I think in a way my relationship with H truly ended a year ago when he shoved me out the door for saying no. His actions betrayed who he really was, and I realized then that I didn’t like who he really was.

Whether he knows it or not, H’s ultimate cruelty turned out to be the best thing that happened in our relationship. It helped me to see what kind of father he’d be, and it paved the way for adoption. So here’s to being physically H-free for a year! And here’s to turning pain and heartache into resolve.

Church Presentation

A few weeks ago I got an e-mail from an LDSFS Agency Representative. She wanted to know if I would be willing to speak about adoption during the third hour of church at her building - it's the fifth Sunday, so it's combined Priesthood and Relief Society. I said of course, I'd love to.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. I think I was thinking that since I've presented in schools a bunch of times, church wouldn't be a problem. Also, the AR was Susan, and I really like Susan. How could I say no? I couldn't. And I wasn't really too concerned about presenting until yesterday. And then I started to panic.

Presenting at schools is one thing. I've got my story down - what parts to play up, what to gloss over, what jokes I'll make, that sort of thing. I've gotten good at keeping religion out of it. And as odd as it sounds (since religion plays such a huge part of my story), I wasn't sure how I'd do. Faced with speaking in a dedicated church building, to church members who would (I hope) actually be listening, I found myself feeling dreadfully unprepared. I panicked. I wasn't sure what to say. With such a different audience than I'm used to, it seemed appropriate to alter the way I tell my story. And I wasn't sure how.

I stayed up until 4:30am, trying to type out my thoughts, editing and re-writing and trying to figure out what to say all over again. I had to downplay things I emphasize in school presentations, figure out what religious aspects to mention and when. And honestly, I think I did a horrible job this afternoon. Then again, I always feel like I do a horrible job of presenting. I feel like I get up there and ramble on and on and overshare and talk too fast and mumble and use too many big words. I must have done okay, though. Several people thanked me for sharing.

The thanks always make me uncomfortable. I don't want people thinking I do presentations for acclaim or attention. I'm sure it sounds odd, considering how openly I blog about things and how much I enjoy public speaking, but I don't necessarily like a lot of attention. Or, I guess what I mean is that I don't like people to think that I seek out attention. I know some birth moms who want to do presentations because they want to talk about themselves and have everyone think they're wonderful and brave and selfless. That's just not me. I talk because I think my story is a good example of ... well, several things, really. One is that it's never too late to make the right decision. The other is that adoption can be an amazing blessing, and that when making the decision, it's what's best for the baby that's most important, not what's going to be easiest for the mom.

I'm rambling again. See, this is what I'm afraid I do when I speak. Blah, blah, blah, me, me, me, no real substance. But Susan said I did great, and told me in no uncertain terms to stop second-guessing myself. See why I like her? She didn't give me a simpering, "Oh, you did amazing! You're wonderful!" Just a straight to the point, "You were great. Don't say you weren't." Susan is awesome (hi, Susan!).

I think it was good for me to shake things up a bit, to talk in a different setting to a different audience. I'm glad I did it. I think people got it. Some of them were crying, anyway, which I try to take as a good thing.

It was sort of a relief to be able to tell the whole story, really. I've always felt that my story lacks something important when I leave religion out. Talking today got me excited (a little, anyway) to speak at the birth mother group on Wednesday. I've never told my story there before, and I wasn't really looking forward to it before, but I'm at least not dreading it now. I think that'll be my toughest audience yet.

National Adoption Month is almost over, which would make me sad except that December is Roo Adoption Month. Her adoption will be finalized, she'll be sealed to her family, and she'll be blessed in church. I am super excited! I can't wait until Roo is theirs officially and for good. It will be such a blessing for all of us. And I'm looking forward to doing a presentation after all that's happened. I feel like it gives my story more of an ending, if you could call it that. More of a conclusion, or a place to stop talking anyway. As it is, I mention visits and openness and sort of trail off. At least in church today I could end with my testimony. Then my mom talked about what it was like for her, especially as an adult adoptee. She did great. My mom is awesome (hi, Mom!). It was nerve-wracking, but I'm glad I did it.

Post Secret

I don't know if it makes me a terrible voyeur or not, but I have always been a big fan of Post Secret. Every so often, there will be a secret about adoption. The latest group of secrets had one, too.



I wish every birth mother in the world could know that about her child - that he or she is happy, healthy, and loved dearly by Mom and Dad. I am so thankful that I know it about my Roo. I've heard from birth mothers who aren't so lucky. My heart breaks for them. It is such a blessing to me to have a great relationship with Roo's parents. I have never doubted for a second that she is happy or that her mom and dad love her more than anything.

Thanksgiving and My Crazy Family

This Thanksgiving was certainly not the one I had planned a few months ago.

I had this picture in my mind of how great it would be to have Roo with me this year. Finally, I thought, my family can't ignore me or treat me like I'm mentally retarded or a child. I imagined showing off Roo, how pretty and sweet and smart she was, having everyone fuss over her and tell me she was just perfect, and fight over who got to hold her.

Instead, I brought pictures. When I first arrived I had to endure nearly every relative putting a hand on my shoulder and asking me in a terribly concerned voice, "Jill, how are you doing?" And no one seemed to believe me when I said I was doing well. Why would they? They all seem to think I am emotionally stunted, abnormal, slightly less than human.

I showed off my pictures and chatted happily about Roo - how big she's gotten, how happy she is, how well she sleeps. My words were met with looks of amazement - whether because my child was perfectly normal or because I was cheerfully talking about her, I can't say. Perhaps a combination of the two. After those who were interested (some lost interest rather quickly) finished looking at the pictures, they thanked me in soft, sad, speak-gently-to-the-mentally-ill-person tones. I found the whole thing rather irritating. I'm getting sick of people pretending that I never had a baby, that she doesn't exist at all. She exists! She is perfect and lovely and I could talk about her until my voice gave out. Only one relative bothered to ask me what my plans are now. I guess everyone else figured I'm just going to go along being pathetically unemployed and uneducated, living with my mother and being my usual abnormal, slightly-retarded self.

I'm not stupid or manic or crazy! I wanted to shout. I am perfectly normal and fine and so is my baby! Talk to me like a normal person for once! But I just smiled tightly instead.

I'm not sure what my family thinks of my decision to place, actually. They said things like, "Oh, this must be so hard for you," but no one said anything about how wonderful it is for Roo, or how they admired me for putting her first, or that I had done something amazing. They all spoke as though she were dead. Lost. Is that how they feel? I wonder. I'm certainly not feeling that kind of grief anymore. I know that I have done a wonderful thing. Roo is where she belongs, with her family. But how do I explain that to them? How can I make them understand about eternal families, about God's plan for us all? I know that years ago, when my father first joined the LDS church, his family's views were distinctly anti-Mormon. They tried to ply him with literature and I'm sure they prayed for his soul. I don't know if, having had thirty or so years to get used to us all, they've changed their opinions at all. I certainly hope so. I'd rather not have my only remaining grandparent think I'm going to burn in hell for all eternity.

Part of me wishes I could have had Roo with me, for just a few minutes that day. So I could show her off and say, look. She is perfect, and I grew her, so I've got to be okay too. She is beautiful, she is smart, she is happy. And here are her parents. I found them for her, I picked them out with help from God. They are awesome people, and she is their baby. I'm okay with that. I'm happy about it! And I wouldn't have it any other way.

But that isn't how it went, and I'm not sure it would have made a difference. So instead I smiled tightly, resisted the urge to shake their hands off my arm and snap at them that they don't need to tiptoe around me and the topic of adoption.

Every time I endure a family gathering, I remember a snippet of dialog from an episode of "Frasier." Daphne asks, "Oh, Dr. Crane, why is it so easy to love our families, yet so hard to like them?"

Frasier's reply is genius. "Well, Daphne, that is one of those questions that make life so rich... and psychiatrists richer."

On Being a Daddy’s Girl

I will admit it: I was an unapologetic daddy’s girl. Not always. Like a lot of kids, I was closest to my mother for years because I spent more time with her. But I was always ecstatic when my dad got home from work.

I was a very curious child and from the time I learned to talk I had nothing but questions for my mother. She answered as best as she could, but frequently my questions (“How does gravity work?” “Why is water wet?”) were too much for her.
“Ask your father when he gets home,” she’d say. And so when my poor father came home from a ten-hour shift at the power plant, he was greeted with a rapid-fire stream of questions from his youngest child. And you know what? He answered every single one. He tried to make things simple for me but he never lied to me or brushed me off. And I asked some odd questions. How did he make electricity at the power plant? And what was electricity made of? How come some cars had a stick shift and some didn’t? Why, once they made the first automatic, did they ever bother making any more stick shifts? Why did some people’s homes catch on fire? Where did the fish in the lake come from? He could always tell me.

The older I got, the better I got to know my father – not just as a dad, but as a person. He was a fascinating man. He knew everything, it seemed. I know that a lot of kids go through a phase where they think their parents are idiots, but that never happened with me. I have always felt that my dad was the smartest man I’d ever met.
My dad taught me so much. Not just about trivial things, like automotive transmissions or voltage. He taught me important things, things about life and death and God and the universe. And he did so much. He could fix anything and everything. He could find anything I lost. He could solve almost any problem. I don’t think I really realized how much he did and how much I relied on him until he died.

When I was considering adoption, my dad was actually an important factor. I didn’t have a choice in losing my dad. He had brain cancer and I was powerless to stop it. I realized as I thought about it that I’d had the most amazing dad in the world … and I was choosing for Roo not to have that. I was choosing for her to be fatherless. A little girl needs a dad! And a big girl needs a dad – as does a teenage girl, and a young woman, and a not-so-young woman. How could I deny Roo a good daddy?

I love M dearly. I think the world of her. I trust her to be a better mom for Roo than I could be. But I would love for Roo to be a daddy’s girl. When I met P and M, and it occurred to me that they might like to hold her, I handed her first to P. And she gave him the biggest smile I had ever seen on that sweet little face. It was a look that said, “Daddy! It’s really you! I’m so happy to meet you!” Roo LOVES her daddy. She loves her mommy, too, of course. But I confess, I’m hoping to hear in a few years that when P gets home from work, Roo runs through the house to greet him at the door.

I had the best dad in the world, and I am so blessed to be sealed to him and my mom for eternity. It is an amazing feeling to know that I’ve given the same to Roo – a wonderful mother and father who are hers, and she theirs, forever.