Acceptance

So much has happened in the past few months that it is taking time for the consequences to sink in. I can talk to C whenever I like, but it is fairly clear from her that it shouldn't be *too* often, unless I really need her. Same for my contact with A. He was very excited after his visit, but now we are both back into the dreary trudge of life. He is busy, I am busy. I could call him, and I have called T, but it's all very superficial. Weather, gardening, what the boys are up to. Work.

I don't know exactly what I expected from all this, but I think the hardest part is realizing that I have to live. Just live. Follow the path I am on and find some satisfaction in it.

From the outside, all is well. I have time and financial stability to do as I like. I have wonderful friends. And yet I can never quite ignore the irritation from the splinter in my soul, the one that has caused me so much pain over the years.

I feel mildly annoyed all the time. I don't think I am depressed--or at least not to the degree that I had been. And yet sometimes there is a flash of the darkness that signals to me that I am not sure what I am living for. What is it that I want to do? How do I do it?

My friend Z has been compiling a detailed family tree for me as he takes particular pleasure in researching. He found ancestors of mine from North Carolina who fought in the Revolutionary War, other relatives who fought in the Civil War. An ancestor who sat on the Supreme Court. I have a rich family history, although I still feel uneasy about claiming it. I am not on any of the family trees, nor will I be. The history is mine, and yet I am not of it. I reread my grandfather's obituary on Wednesday, and I felt a stab to the heart where it said that he is survived by three grandsons. He is. True. But I am also his granddaughter, the one who was too embarrassing to admit. The one who was taken far away to avoid sullying the family name in the small town. The one who paid the price then, and who continues to pay for all the familial ambivalence and nervousness.

A few days ago I went with my friend Joy to the LDS Temple in Oakland. We visited the Family History Center and did some genealogical research in a brightly lit basement, well appointed with books and computers. I discovered that C's brother's birthday is New Year's Day. He was 18 when I was born, not 17, as my non-identifying information stated. Because God forbid that anyone tell the truth. I feel such anger about my family's and the agency's prevarications: "Neuman" not "Newman"; C age was "around" 22, instead of exactly 22; my uncle was not 17, but 18. And then the lies continued.

I have been thinking a little bit about contacting my uncle. C and A have both told me that he wants to talk to me. I put the ball in his court last September, but for whatever reason, he hasn't acted on it. I am not the most patient person in the world. I could probably wait forever and hear nothing; maybe it would be good for me to wait. I understand how difficult it is to reach out to an unknown person. I have made the first step, over and over. I asked Joy what she advised, and she encouraged me, as ever, to do what my gut tells me. She said that I have absolutely done enough, but if I want to do more, she supports me. It certainly would be nice to have someone take the reins; but will they?

I suppose what I am struggling with is the path to finding acceptance in all this mess. There is so much about these relationships that I cannot change. I know that. And yet my feelings of powerlessness are immense and difficult. I am here right now because of what I have done in my life, but also for what I *didn't* do. Such as choose to be born to a woman who was unmarried, and whose family couldn't stand the shame of an out-of-wedlock child.

I wonder if C will ever be able to face her demons and tell me how she really felt at the time of my birth. I wonder if she says nothing to protect me from the sad truth that she wishes I'd never been conceived. In some ways, it would be easier to hear that. In the meantime, I nurse the hope that she might have acted differently if she were coerced. Maybe she was coerced. It seems likely. I just don't know, and the PTSD prevents her from talking. I get that, even accept it, but it's not easy for me.

Then I think about how much my afamily has given to me, all the experiences and unconditional love. I have been so blessed in many ways. Why is it so difficult to reconcile this with the pain and all those years of self-loathing? Why do I always have to be the strong one?