I’m having one of THOSE days. Sometimes you just need a pity party. No one else comes, you don’t really want them there anyway. You don’t need snacks because it’s impossible to swallow. You just need tissues. My brain just keeps repeating “This was not the plan, this was not the plan, this was NOT the plan.” I suppose I was silly to ever think that my plan mattered.
I have so many questions about adoption and not necessarily the process. When we pass on to heaven/afterlife, will our child be with us or their birth family? Can I teach our child to be proud of their Bosnian heritage even though they aren’t really Bosnian? When all their ancestors stand in a line, will we be there? The people that could answer these questions best for me have passed on, my Mamaw, Papaw, Steve. They would give me the perfect answer, the RIGHT answer. They always had the right answers. I’m glad they were mine.
This whole thing has made me feel cursed and blessed at the same time. Why did this happen to ME? Then I look around and see all of the love, support and offers that surround us. We are the lucky ones but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. I come here to vent and usually it’s not real positive. Sometimes I want to smack people when they complain about their kids, then I realize that one day, I may complain about mine. I want to choke the ladies who bitch about how awful pregnancy is. I’d sell my soul to be in their shoes. But…this is the hand that I was dealt and there is no second chance. All I can do is play the hand I was dealt as best I can.
As I was reading Gone Girl a few weeks ago, there was a quote that really hit home.
“I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.”