Even though I was adopted in 1966, I had not heard the phrase “adoptee trauma” until five days ago, which caused me to feel a surge of emotion that I am unable to describe. I really, really want to be able to describe this feeling, but I can’t seem to do it. Is it because I’m dealing with pre-verbal trauma, so I am literally at a loss for words? I’ve heard other adoptees refer to this feeling as “coming out of the fog.”
It’s as if a road construction worker, all decked out in her orange vest and hard hat, saunters up to the barricade that’s restraining me, picks it up and just walks away with it. Easy peasy. I’m left standing there rubbing my eyes and looking around with a vacant expression on my face, trying to figure out what just happened. Did she really just move that barricade like it was no big deal? I have a sudden urge to chase after her and make her put it back! Doesn’t she know that I’m not sure I know how to “do life” without that barricade?
Instead, I will thank her because I know, with absolute certainty, that I would not be sitting here writing about me and my story if that barricade was still holding me back. Words are suddenly just pouring out of me and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s safe to use my voice to tell my story.
And another thing: I’m seeing flashes of the little floating triangle inside of a Magic 8 Ball toy I had when I was a kid. I imagine myself playing with it, asking some dumb question, shaking it up and waiting for the triangle to settle. It finally pops up with an answer, it’s not safe to be you. I sit and stare at it for a minute and say, “Okie, dokie, that’s what I thought,” and then I toss the toy into a random box that gets buried in the back of a closet.
Fast forward to now, I am digging around in the back of that closet, I come upon the random box, open it up, excitedly grab the Magic 8 Ball and give it a vigorous shake. The triangle begins swirling around and around in the mysterious fluid until it slowly rights itself and I read, it is safe to be you. How can this be? I’m so confused and very skeptical, although, I can sense that my story is slowly floating to the surface, and writing about it will help the child within me dislodge that old Magic 8 Ball answer she knew to be true.
Writing about my life will no doubt feel like a gut punch, but my gut is always clenched so fucking tight it could use some loosening up. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I was born, maybe even since I was conceived.
I have mixed feelings about writing about me since I’ve pretty much ignored myself my entire life. I didn’t consciously do this, but it was the only way I could survive. I needed to focus on everyone else because there was no way I could focus on myself without imploding or exploding—take your pick. There is a part of me that is very curious to hear what Sherry has to say. I mean, who is she anyway? There is another part of me that is terrified. What if I’m completely different than the person I think I am? What happens then? I can’t go back now, but I’m also not super confident that I can go forward either.
Maybe if I dedicate these writings to her, to Sherry, it will be the reminder I need to keep writing because she deserves to know who she is. I have silenced her for far too long. It is time to let her be seen and heard without fear that her world will end. I don’t seem to have a problem fighting for everyone else that I see as needing my protection. But, what about me? If I don’t see myself as worthy of fighting for, what am I doing here? It’s time I use my superpowers to fight for me.
Recently I “shit out” a poem. I say I “shit out” a poem because I’ve never written a poem in my life and this one came directly—and abruptly—from my subconscious. I had no idea these words were living within me. I expressed feelings in this poem that I considered taboo, dangerous feelings, like a sharpened machete that might accidentally slice someone’s heart out.
In actuality, I had swallowed the machete, and it has been holed up inside my body causing me the immense pain I was so afraid of inflicting upon someone else. The action of getting these “sharp” words onto paper opened me up enough that it allowed information about adoptee trauma to start flowing into my life.
Thanks to this new information, I now know there is a perfectly good explanation for my inability to feel true connection. I’ve spent my life desperately trying to connect to others while pushing them away. I know this doesn’t make sense, but connection is elusive and foreign to me. What a relief it was when I found out there are other adoptees out there dealing with this conundrum too. I’ve always felt like there was something inherently wrong with me. The truth is, there is nothing wrong with me, I am just adopted. Here is my poem:
Her Still Beginning
A Poem
By Sherry Lynn Espinosa
I. Stillbirth
their newborn has been buried
a replacement baby hastily adopted,
to hold their pain.
this, is her beginning
they are blinded by grief, she has
nowhere to go.
holding their pain
in silence
so that they may live
II. Still Holding
all the pain
quietly, shhhh
do not speak
she is looking for her voice
buried with the infant,
her will to live bloodied and raw,
violently struggling
to escape the grave, screaming
without making a sound
finding her voice
in the stillness of exhaustion,
as the fight leaves her
broken and bruised, seeking
respite from the pain
of silence.
this is her, still beginning