I got an email from my friend Elizabeth the other day. She’d found a blog from a woman whose brother was given up for adoption when he was a baby and is now helping her mom (their mom) search. This “birth sister’s” writing went right to my gut and before I knew it, the feeling came back.
It’s mostly centered in my gut, this feeling, and radiates out from there. It’s like evil butterflies. Like life or death fear and it wouldn’t be a painless or clean or peaceful death. I felt this way sitting on a picnic table in the park the day I met my very first birthmother (other than myself) and she told me she wanted to search for her lost daughter and asked me if I wanted t search for my son.
The butterflies radiate out from the center and the beating of their wings cause a quaking and it takes energy to keep from full-out shaking–I mean St. Vitus dance arms and legs akimbo flailing–and the effort makes feel like I could sleep for a week if I could just relax and make the feeling go away. But it won’t.
I felt like this every time I told my story to friends and family. And then, even years later when I started to write about it, the feeling was there. Not that long ago, I told someone it had been only recently that I could re-visit the experience of having given up my son without experiencing that shaking.
But it can still come back.