Keeping the "secret"...

The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.
~  Dorothy Dix

I had been home from the hospital...from the birth of my son...for a couple of days when some friends came to visit. I know that these friends knew exactly what was going on...but everyone acted as if I had just had an operation or was recovering from an illness. No one uttered the word "baby" or "labor and delivery"...the "secret" was not spoken of by anyone. They came with gifts for me, and get well cards (get well?)...perhaps they were to ease my tattered heart...there were flowers...best of all there was a set of mohair bears...a mother and a baby. I could hug these bears, cry with these bears, and no one could ever take them from me. They represented the baby and myself to me.

What was I suppose to do with the range of emotions I was feeling?  I wanted to have this baby, I never entertained the idea of an abortion, I wanted the baby to be a part of me. I wanted my baby to have what I couldn't give him...a family that consisted of a mother and a father. I was doing what was best for the baby, for my son, because that is all that really mattered. I believed that he would be loved and cared for way beyond what I believed I was capable of. I thought that adoption was the best possible solution, but with all my heart I wanted to keep my baby too. There were things that I wanted to remember...I wanted to remember the sweetness of his face...how tiny I thought he was, but also how perfect I thought he was. But, once he left my arms I didn't want to remember anything. I couldn't make sense of my conflicting emotions. And of course no one talked to me about postpartum depression, no one talked to me at all about how I was feeling.

I kept pushing my emotions down...down as deep as I could. I needed to survive. I smiled....I laughed and I spent time with friends. Everything appeared to be normal...but I still had no idea what normal was nor did I know if I would ever feel that way. I called my sweetheart at school within a few days of giving birth. I told him that I had the baby and it was a boy. He never asked any questions, he just said that he was glad that it was over and now I could get on with my life. On with my life...I had no idea what that meant either. Where was I? What was I suppose to do? My breasts were full of milk and I had no baby to suckle them...my body had changed over night. I was no longer a young girl...I now felt more like a woman. What was I suppose to do with all the emotions I had...the loneliness...the sadness...the loss...the feeling of not being good enough to care for my own child...the shame...the distance I felt toward everyone and everything and worst of all the guilt I felt for placing my son up for adoption.

When I was feeling physically better I started down the path of numbing myself. Pushing the emotions as deep as possible and keeping myself in a state of refusing to deal with anything. My sweetheart came home for Thanksgiving vacation...I ran into him at a gathering. He would not talk to  me...he did not acknowledge me...so I drank a little and then a little more and pushed everything deeper still. I hated that Thanksgiving. I found nothing to be festive about and no reason to give thanks for anything. I had a black cloud surrounding me and once again I found I had no one to talk to about any of this. I began to live the life of a party girl. I would work at the local drug store during the day and then I would go to the bar every night...repeat...repeat...repeat almost every night of the week. I found I disconnected from my high school friends and would find groups of different friends over the next several years. Never getting to close to any of them, never letting them know the "secret". I went through the motions of life...day by day.

 I even got back with my sweetheart for a short time, we never talked about the baby or the pregnancy. I know that disappointed me, and shortly after getting back together we broke up again. There was still that physical draw to each other, but I could not fix him or get him to love me the way I thought I needed him to. And he could not make me into someone who liked all the things that he did. We were so very different and although I felt this huge connection to him because of the baby, I also knew in  my heart that it would never work out between us. That I had to move on, and so I did.

It was a year after my son's birth when I was contacted by the lawyer that had helped in the adoption placement. I would have to fly to New York City to sign the final adoption papers. I could take someone with me, everything would be paid for and I would be able to stay several days in the city to explore. I had no idea that the final papers had not been signed. I took my sister with me and off we went. We got into NYC early on a Friday morning, the adoptive parents lawyer picked us up and settled us in the hotel. I was to be at the court house that afternoon, he would come and get me and my sister should I wish for her to go along. I felt a little nervous, but I wasn't sure why after all it had been a year. Once inside the judges chambers he asked if I was "willing" to sign the final papers, was  I being forced by anyone to do this. I answered the questions and then he asked me again. I answered that Yes I was willing to sign the papers and NO that no one was forcing me to do this. Then he asked me if I would like to see my child before I signed the final papers. SEE HIM? I never thought of that happening. I answered NO, as he continued to ask me this question several times. Finally I said yes. I walked out of his chambers and down a hall past lots of doors, till finally the court appointed personal stopped and I looked through the two way glass window. There he was sitting on the floor...he was healthy and he was happy...and he had been with his parents now for a year, he was no longer mine. I walked so quickly back to the judges chambers and asked where do I sign. I was shaking and holding back tears...as he placed the papers I was to sign in front of me there was a piece of paper covering the names of the adoptive parents. It slipped and there at the top of the page were the names: Jane and John Doe,( these are not their real names) or so I thought. I ran out of that office with both the lawyer and my sister following me. Once I got on the street I had no where to run, the lawyer came up and said he had arranged for us to go to a play that evening. I looked at him with tears in my eyes and said..."NO...you will get me  on the next plane out of here, and he did. Just when I thought I was getting on with things pretty good, I had locked so much away in the safe box this set me back. I had to start all over again in a lot of ways and it was not pretty for the next couple years. It would be almost 20 years before I went back to NYC.

I continued to go about aimlessly. I tried nursing school, but that was not for me. I tried doing secretarial work, and that was not for me. I continued to do my writing and reading and even some art work, all which still was kept under lock and key.

By 1972 I was living with my boyfriend and working as a waitress at a large hotel. I was happy enough...although I have to admit that I did not know what happy really was or if I deserved to be happy. I was in love, or at least what I thought was love...still dealing with the sex verses love thing was something that I had a hard time deciphering. I shared my "secret" with him and he accepted it without judging me.

My life seemed somewhat normal for the first time since 1969.