Regret

I said it, for the first time, out loud, in conversation.  A conversation about my son.

REGRET.

I hate that word.  HATE.  It creates a thunderstorm in my body.  Pressure builds behind my eyes, inside my head, my throat, my gut.  And I want to throw it up, but it just sits there and churns and boils and it feeds on itself.  In my mind it is the single most horrible thing I can feel.  It’s worse than anger and sadness and jealously.  And fear.  I can accept, and even embrace, being angry and sad.  And although I find jealously and fear a bit more difficult, those too I can acknowledge with grudging acceptance.  But not regret.  Because regret, in my mind, means I was wrong.  It means I made the wrong choice.  And, oh, how I hate being wrong.  And worse yet, the fact that it has appeared here, in this space I have always so adamantly maintained was a place where it did not belong…

So, what do I regret?

I regret not reaching out to him more.

I regret not sending him letters every single chance I had.

I regret not pushing for more contact after we were reunited.

I regret not trying harder.

Then, in the midst of writing this this, I decided to look up the actual definition.  Rather eye opening.

From Merriam-Webster.com:

·     Regret: to feel sad or sorry about (something that you did or did not do): to have regrets about (something)

-used formally and in writing to express sad feelings about something that is disappointing or unpleasant.

This is so very much better than my definition.  This definition does not limit regret to wrong vs right, one thing over the other.  It does not enforce a dichotomy.  Instead it allows for an inclusiveness I have been lacking.  It enables me to say something I have NEVER uttered before:

I regret placing my son for adoption. 

And under this new-found definition I can regret placing him for adoption while still maintaining it was the right choice.  Because I desperately need to continue to believe it was the right choice.

Default Setting

The busy season is upon me, with spring and change in the air.  I seem to be spending almost as much time trying to pull my thoughts together as I am getting any work done, but at the end of the day I can see progress – thanks to well thought out to-do lists.
 

I’ve been incorporating meditation into my daily life, with over a solid month of 10 minutes or more per day.  I like it, and I like that I’m doing it.  Is it making a difference?  I don’t know, but I feel a bit less anxious, or more precisely, more at ease.   

But tonight, my mind and emotions are in a bit of a flux, and I’m feeling discontented.

There is such an ebb and flow to how I feel and think about my son, waves of intensity.  Some days I find myself walking by his picture and lightly touching the image, so grateful for the connections we had.  Other days I sit and doubt… everything.  The moments of gratefulness I embrace as much as I can, and the others, well, sometimes I give them airtime.  I’m trying to learn to hear the chorus of critics in my head without necessarily listening to them; learning to acknowledge the fears without letting them take control. 

When it comes to my son I never knew how to tell people that I wanted to talk about him.  That even though it usually made me cry I still wanted to and to find ways to acknowledge his existence.  Now, as I continue to learn how to share him, and I tell people I want to be open about him, I find myself resorting back to my old default when they do bring him up: clamming up and shutting down – it’s so frustrating!  I don’t want to do that anymore.

My oldest sister spoke of my son fairly often, more so after we were reunited.  She wanted to know if I’d heard from him or talked to him.  It’s one of the many things I’ve always loved about her – that she never seemed afraid to bring him up in conversation.  She always made me feel as though he was a normal part of my life, our lives, and she never once doubted he would find me one day.   

For that I am so very grateful.  

My oldest brother and his wife have their own very personal relationship with adoption: they adopted two beautiful boys.  When they began their adoption journey, we talked about my experience and what I looked for in perspective parents; I think they were hoping to get the inside story – I’m not sure I was ever really helpful, but I hope so.  Our conversations, no matter how seemingly insignificant, were precious to me.

The youngest siblings, my baby sister and baby brother, were only 9 and 11 when I had my son.  I can’t even tell you what they thought about all of it, what their feelings were.  We never talked about it then, and haven’t really since, but I hope to learn someday how they felt and what their experiences were, if they are willing.

My son expressed an interest in meeting them all; especially my brothers, since his adopted family was heavily populated with girls.  One of the few times all of us siblings were together we talked with anticipation and excitement about when and where and who would be there (we didn’t think it would be wise for all of us to be present - we were a bit afraid to overwhelm him with the full force of our combined craziness).   

We talked and laughed and dreamt about what it will be like… would be like...

We just never had the chance.