Life after Trauma

Return to sender - of birthdays, silence & sorrow

They say everything can be replaced/Yet every distance is not near

Bob Dylan

Return to sender (Donovan Beeson, flickr creative commons)

 

When I got back from a recent trip, I didn't check the mail for a few days. When I did, I found the card that I'd sent to my daughter - the one who I relinquished for adoption and who I'm estranged from - in the mailbox. There was a yellow sticker on the bottom right hand corner of the card that read, "Return to Sender. Not Deliverable as Addressed. Unable to Forward." I was so upset that I barely touched the card and threw it, unopened,  on the table with the other mail. I was upset because a previous letter that I'd sent came back with a slightly different message: "No mail receptacle." That was a message I'd never seen, so I phoned my daughter's local post office, located in a small town near her rural home. They told me that my daughter was having her mail held or forwarded for a year - I don't remember which - and, then, assured me that if I sent the card  back in a new envelope, addressed as the first one was, they - i.e. the post mistress - would make sure it was forwarded. I believed her and did what she said, only to discover upon my return home, that it had NOT been forwarded. 

 

Angel of sorrow (ekletik2xs, flickr creative commons)

 

I was sad when I made the discovery, but even sadder a few days later when I realized that for the first time since my daughter and I were reunited thirteen years ago, I couldn't send her a birthday card. It didn't matter that I haven't spoken to my daughter in three years. (As of yesterday, July 25.) Somehow it didn't seem so final if I could send her a birthday card, as I've faithfully done on the previous two birthdays since we've been estranged. See more about the story of our estrangement by clicking on the link: Estrangement - telling our stories. Yesterday - July 25th - was the 42nd anniversary of the first time I lost my daughter and the third anniversary of our estrangement. I guess that means that I've only been in touch with my daughter for about ten years of her life. Not for lack of trying or lack of hoping. No, that's the way adoption was done back in the 60s and 70s and, today, both my daughter and I are still living with the aftershocks of the day we parted. We both left the hospital alive on that long ago day, but something died: the normal relationship between mother and daughter was lost forever. Does that make me sad? Yes, yes, yes! More than I can find a way to convey. However, the deepness of the sorrow and frustration I felt yesterday, frightened me. It's appropriate to grieve, but I know that I have to let go of the hope that someday my daughter and I can be a mother and daughter again. 

 

bouquet, flickr creative commons

 

 Letting go of that hope feels so painful that it's hard to think of a metaphor. The best one I can come up with is imagining that the roots of a tree called sorrow are growing around my heart.  Pulling this sorrow tree out feels like it would kill me, but I have to try. "Don't let your grief hold you hostage," my therapist said today, when we talked. Amongst other things we talked about what letting go might look like and we also discussed suggestions for a personal ritual of closure. Letting something go into the ocean - which I live near - was one of the things we discussed. I immediately thought of a small creek in a nearby botanical garden. The woods are deep there, a small wooden bridge crosses the creek, and it's a quiet spot, perfect for such a ritual. Right now, it's too dry for there to be any water in the creek, but come fall and the rains, I can plan a ritual that involves a close friend or, if he'll participate, my son. After all, my first daughter is his half-sister. I can picture the flowers and how they will twist and turn in the current before heading along their journey to the sea. I like the ideal; it's a place to start.

Meanwhile, I still have the card sitting here on the table in front of me. It was a beautiful card, carefully chosen, telling my daughter that I would be in Michigan for a few weeks where I thought she was - indeed, may be - living and suggesting we get together for coffee. Of course, she never saw the card. I'll probably put it in the box with the mementoes I've collected over our decade of reunion. Only time will tell whether someday in the indefinite future we'll be back in touch again. For now, though, I have to get on with my life, and set at least part of this heavy burden down. It's time. 

In the years that my daughter and I led separate lives and neither knew where the other was, I often kept the words of one of my favorite Motown songs in my mind.  "There ain't no mountain high enough/Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough/To keep me from getting to you." I never imagined that my daughter would be the mountain or the river - that she would be the one who wouldn't let me get to her. More on why adoption reunions fail and how to cope in a future post.

  

Breathing Space: taking time for myself

And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void . . . 

I wheeled with the stars

my heart broke loose with the wind.

Pablo Neruda

 

 Wind chimes (D. Sharon Pruitt, flickr)

 

As I mentioned in a previous posting, I've been staying at my parent's house for almost a month now. My mother is in a rehab center with an unset fracture in her right hip. I am staying with my dad at my parent's house, which has its moments. For one thing, I've never been a Daddy's girl. Quite the contrary. Dad and I can clash if I'm not careful  - especially when he's anxious, like he is now. So, the past month has been trying in many ways. For one thing, I am rarely in charge of my own time. Mom expects me to spent large amounts of time at the rehab center. On Monday, of this week, she was at the ER again because she wasn't able to swallow. By the time they took an x-ray, however, whatever was lodged in her swallowing tube, had dislodged. Based on her description of what she ate for lunch, the ER doctor thought it was probably a carrot. I call it the "evil carrot."  Anyway, between time spent at the hospital, in doctor's appointments, etc. I am plenty busy with my mom.  At "home", I am the chief cook, laundry doer, medical liaison, and dish washer. What it comes down to is that I have scant time available for myself. I need that time, the way plants need water. 

Some people refer to this space as self-care. Self-care is essential for trauma survivors, people grieving, and people with PTSD; it is certainly essential for me. I have to have quiet "processing" time or I start to feel anxious or -given the small space in my mom's room at rehab - as though I am suffocating. One of my favorite ways to enjoy quiet time, is to lie in the guest room, which is furnished with much of the furniture that was in my grandparents bedroom in Kentucky - and listen to my dad's wind chimes. He has about a dozen of them hanging from trees in the wooded backyard and on windy days or nights I can hear their peaceful chimes up in my room. I love the sound of the wind, the wind chimes, and the whistle of the train that passes several times during the night. 

 

 

Other ways I practice self-care

• Going barefoot 
• Eating fresh fruit
• Listening to music
• Reading poetry
• Talking to friends and family via email or phone
• Writing family and friends
• Walking

All of these ways are good ones. Little things, like going barefoot in the house, help ground me, while "big" things like going for walks and reading poetry give me comfort and recharge my batteries. Yesterday, I went for a walk and saw, among other things, snow drops blooming, a disappearing snow man embedded with leaves, and heard birds calling high up in the trees. The sun was out and for 25 minutes, all I needed to think about was breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the wind, and moving my feet one after the other. Most days, I take time to read poetry and most days I discover a new poem to love, like the one by Neruda above.

I'm also reading three books that are rich sources for ideas on self-care and self-compassion.

Saved by a Poem

Healing Walks for Hard Times

The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion

And, at night, listening to music feeds my soul. Here's one of my favorite "comfort" songs.