Blogging is an art form . . .
I know this because I read other people's blogs and feel amazed by the open sharing and humility and personal touch added to each post.
I am yet a peon in this field, but never set out to change the world with my insight or reach the far corners of the world, or even our country, with my words.
I suppose my goal in blogging is to share the personal aspects of our adoption journey, connect with others who share in our experiences (and wow! what doors have been opened to me), and communicate with those who are involved in our lives and do not want to be burdened by asking "So, how's the adoption coming along?" repeatedly.
We have been extraordinarily blessed with friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances who care enough to keep track of our process.
Oh mama.
What a process.
Not every one that reads this knows who I am outside these posts, or more than we are adopting from Haiti. Some know of me through my husband (Lord knows he has his own following), my children and their activities, my parents, our church or my work affiliation. I never wish to cross that line of offering
Too Much Information . . . but that's easier said than done when emotions are involved and vulnerability is obvious.
I will just throw out this disclaimer:
If I say too much and make you uncomfortable, remember I am human. I do not blog "professionally" (thank goodness God saved you and granted me a day job), and my thoughts and words are sincere . . . even if they are not well filtered.
I tend to be blunt (stop giggling work friends).
My emotions are frequently worn on my sleeve.
I am a passionate person, whether that is good or not.
And recently, I've been battling depression.
I first experienced depression in my 20's. I thought it was situational and all would be well with a little counseling and a few months of Paxil.
The ugly beast returned after the birth of my first child and it did terrible things to my psyche.
Determined to nurse my newborn throughout the first year of his life, I was convinced I could control the thoughts in my head and not return to medical treatment until I was successful in feeding my baby for a set number of months.
We had relocated; I switched jobs; we were building a house while living in a TINY rental.
Every time I stood at the top of the basement stairs, I would picture myself falling or tripping and my son flying out of my arms to the concrete landing below.
I couldn't avoid the basement, so I sometimes took the stairs on my bum, scooting step to step to avoid dizziness and the inevitable fall.
I was scared to death to carry him anywhere near the doorway.
I didn't know if it was intuition, foreshadowing, what??
His first birthday was a huge relief to me. He was alive and I could get help.
Now, for anyone who hasn't experienced depression, it is not typical sadness that everyone feels from time to time. It is a dominating, powerful, and often frightening force in one's head.
Some couch jumpers might promote extra vitamins and dietary changes and a little more frequent exercise and activity . . . and while those things may help, I sincerely hope medical and pharmaceutical intervention is sought before things get out of control.
My mother
frequently refers to me as a "perfectionist."
(It's very helpful to hear that repeatedly)
As anyone in my career field knows, that's not always a bad thing to be. It is difficult, however, to deal with situations, such as ADOPTION, where there comes a point that absolutely
nothing is within your control.
It physically sickens me to think of my boys and the other children my eyes have seen in orphanages in Jacmel, Port-au-Prince and Fondwa whose swollen bellies go hungry and scabbed over bodies go untreated.
The statistics are staggering and sobering. Why are there so many babies (and by babies, I mean children, which pretty much means anyone younger than 20) who do not know the love and the security of a home and a family?
Why do the called have such little ability to make a difference
right now?
The waiting is excruciating.
The excess all around me is frustrating and ridiculous and grotesque.
Knowing that my paperwork has been gathering dust on a desk for almost 7 months now makes me hypertensive.
It's not even the
thousands of dollars spent on USCIS paperwork and processing and international dossier creation, authentication, shipping, etc.
It's not . . . well, yes it is . . . the fact that the head of the IBESR has closed to "new" dossiers in order to focus on the ones already in process.
Woo Hoo - thank you Jesus that some orphans will have families soon.
Why wasn't our paperwork completed and in that stack??
What can I do from here?
There is a family who I long to meet someday, who are preparing to travel home with their beloved
Pearl of the Caribbean after living in-country for 6 months to get the job done.
How I long to do that.
How my heart longs to hold my Dimmy and tell him we are working on a permanent home for him. He has no concept of the love and the commitment we already made to him.
He has no idea how much of my brain is consumed with all things related to adoption, orphan processing, IBESR expedition, Creole attorney motivation, the Sisters of Sainte Antoine and the little orphanage on the mountain top . . .
Does God know something we don't? (well, obviously, but you know what I mean)
Are we not quite ready for some reason?
Is there more I need to fix? To prepare? To fight for?
Do I not trust Him enough to turn it over to His capable hands??
I know.
I really do.
My head just needs to remind my heart.
