The Echo of My Voice

This week the topic for McBloggery was “A Voice.”  Like others, I contemplated different directions to go with the topic.  I thought about writing about ways my daughter is learning to use her voice.  I thought of writing of some unique ways in which God has empowered me to use my voice in the past.  I couldn’t “put pen to paper” though.  It was while writing recipes tonight in a recipe book that I realized what I wanted to write. 

When I was a child, my family had a tradition.  My parents would tell stories on our birthdays.  Most of the particular stories regarding my brothers are not readily accessible in my memory – but the stories were things like first words, first steps and how long it took one of my younger brothers to give up his bottle. 

When it came to me though, the stories started when I was three and half.  My parents will still talk about how the social worker walked into the door with me and my first words were “Do you have room for my stuff?”  My family still gets a kick out of that story, but growing up, I resented it.  I couldn’t explain or name that feeling as a child, but I know now it was resentment borne of mourning.  I used to “sabotage” my birthdays.  It was easier to have my parents angry and frustrated at me than to explain to them why I was not happy.  How could they give me what I didn’t even know was missing?

When I was placed with my parents 28 years ago, not a lot was known about the psychology of adopted children.  I was told that once I became “theirs” I would be OK.  I was finally adopted when I was almost six years old.  I wasn’t Ok though.  I mourned a part of myself and in many ways still mourn it today.  My life journey so far has included finding my biological family.  There are some members who I acknowledge as blood relatives.  There are some I acknowledge as family. 

In so many ways, I did not have a voice while I was growing up.  The development stages a child goes through in their first five years of life are the most crucial.  A child learns what they live.  For the first three and a half years of my life, I was not safe.  I was not properly cared for.  No matter how much my Mom and Dad loved and continue to love me, those first formative years of my life have left lasting scars that they could not overcome.  They partially could not overcome them because they were never taught to recognize what was happening.  There are things that others can do so easily that I cannot.  There are times when I cannot find my voice and I bottle things inside.  There are times when I just cannot take it anymore and I explode and use my voice inappropriately.  There have been times when I have hurt others when I have not meant to. 

However, I have found an outlet and a voice in writing.  I have been writing since I was young.  When I write, I am surprised by what comes out.  There are often thoughts that I did not realize I had or I was not allowing myself to consciously acknowledge.  I often look back at things I have written and find I have forgotten things.  I am grateful for the clarity in which I can write because I will never truly lose those memories.  I cherish the memories.  I hold onto them because I know the pain of not knowing things I desperately want to know but never will. 

The day that I “officially” found out I was pregnant with Olivia, the first thing I did was buy a journal.  I went to one of my favorite parks in the world.  On the fishing pier, I sat on a bench and looked out at the ocean.  I wrote a letter to the child that was growing in my womb – to my daughter. 

I have kept that up in many different ways.  I have made scrapbooks of my past with her father as well as our life together as mother and daughter.  A big component of scrapbooking are the explanations of the photos on the pages.  I have kept a journal and written letters to her about significant things that have happened in our lives, as well as daily things.  Tonight, I was working on a recipe book for Liv of some of her favorite dishes.  In the “Notes” section of each page, I found myself writing little anecdotes about each dish.  For one, I relayed a story of the first time I made it.  For another, I relayed a story of how I messed it up one time and my daughter told me “This was not your best effort, Mommy.” 

Sometimes the most important things we learn from our parents are not the “loud important” moments but the whispers of the every day.  It is most often the simple memories that we clutch to and hold to our hearts. 

One day, I may not be able to remember what my daughter may want to know.  I worry about what my mental and cognitive state will be when I am in my sixties, seventies and beyond due to my Bipolar II Disorder and biological family history.  Will I be more prone to dementia or other similar impairments?  Will my daughter one day look in my eyes and realize that I am not seeing her for who she is?  I remember one day my Nana did not know me before she died.  She did know my daughter though – she thought my daughter was me.  She did not recognize me as an adult. 

So much of my life is spent preparing an echo of my voice for my daughter and her children.  I want them to know me when I am gone.  I do not want my daughter to ever doubt that I love her with everything that I have.  She is my reason for being.  I want my future grandchildren to know how amazing their Mom is and how she got to be that way. 

I want the echo of my voice to ultimately help to guide my daughter long after I am able to speak to her.  I want what I leave behind to lessen the impact on the mourning she will do.  I want to know that if she ever needs to know that I love her, all she will have to do is pick up a journal I left behind. 

And that is the best way I feel I can use my voice.