Alone

It's taken me an extra week to dive back into writing this blog...the last post was difficult to write, and I know that for some it was difficult to read.

I couldn't have asked for a better childhood given the situation - my adoptive parents and family were wonderful and nurturing. Regardless, being adopted has its effects, as you probably know by now if you've been reading my posts. Part of my hesitation in coming back to writing the blog was knowing that I'd have to address how adoption has affected my life, and particularly my relationships.

On the surface, it might seem that I have a somewhat charmed life. I'm well-schooled, I've had a few really interesting careers, I have many terrific friends and family, and now, finally, a wonderful place to live that is peaceful and filled with plants and music, friends and of course my two kitties. But I've never had a loving, fulfilling partnership, far from it in fact.

To start to untangle this, let me step back to the year 2000, when I was working on my Master's Degree in Creative Arts and Education. (You can read more about this in previous posts if you're just joining in.) In the Visual Arts module (a month-long immersion, book-ended by two long weekends in person) we were given "permission" to draw as a five-year old as one of our assignments. "Draw what you, as a five-year old, is thinking about." I was in a group of people that I trusted completely (having been through several months of the program together) and I drew on my emotions to make marks on the page. We'd been through some pretty intense stuff during the program already, which made it okay to try this new avenue. And it felt good not to worry about how good or bad the art was.

I was surprised by the three paintings that resulted from this assignment. My memories of my younger years were of being alone and afraid. My brother had recently died, and I'm sure that my parents were beyond despair at his death, none of which I understood. As I painted, eventually my thoughts were to reassure my five-year old self that I wasn't alone. Not necessarily that there was a god of some sort keeping me company, but the knowledge that I am able, and always have been able, to find what I need through my own strength and courage.

The first piece, black and white - me, standing in my parents' driveway on a gray day. My mom wasn't home, and I couldn't find my dad. The seagulls were swirling inland from the harbor, undoubtedly bad weather was approaching. The piece exudes the fear I felt about being alone.

When I was young, I thought that my deceased brother would watch over me from heaven, and I still think that, along with all of the other important people that I have lost. The bright place in the sky is a metaphor for the beloved guardian angels who look after me when I'm alone...with the ever-present seagulls of course.

The third painting was a picture of a solid piece of granite in the foreground - solid, cold, unmoving, alone. Behind it, a blue stream, water being able to eventually change the shape of things, even rock. And in the background, under an intense purple sky, a forest with several prominent trees beckoning the lonely rock on the other side of the stream to join in. The rock of course, is me.

I've always been a survivor. Determined to achieve things on my own, not asking for help for fear of rejection, afraid to fall in love, afraid to be anything other than perfect. I've achieved so much in my life, all the while craving affirmation and love, yet unable to find the courage to open my heart. The fear of being given away again, or of losing those that I loved was far too painful.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." Anais Nin