When I was six years old, my dad took me out of school for a week and we took a trip to visit his parents, my paternal grandparents.  This was back when my dad was still “Daddy”, when I willingly held his hand everywhere we went, when he was master of the universe, could do no wrong, and could fix any problem, no matter how big or small.

My grandparents lived in Queens, in the small row home that my dad grew up in.  When we would visit, I would sleep in the small second bedroom, in one of the two twin beds squeezed in the space.  On the wall above the pillow was a set of shelves where my clothes would go.  (It’s amazing to me what minute details the brain chooses to hang onto…)  Their home was about four doors down from a major avenue, and I can still remember how much trouble I had sleeping because of the constant noise, the cars and trucks roaring by at all hours of the day and night.  At home, there was mostly silence.  It’s funny now, that as an adult, how much that has shifted; I am definitely more comfortable falling asleep to the sounds of a city.

On this trip I was speaking of my dad took me all around New York, to all the places he loved as a boy growing up there, and to all of the things that make NYC great.  He would tell me stories as we rode the subway into town, of the many adventures he had, of the trouble he caused.  I could listen forever.  One of the places that we went to was to see my first Broadway show.  By this point, I was already a few years into ballet lessons, so we went to see A Chorus Line, and I loved it.  I kept the program for years.  Looking back, I think this may have been my first time going to ‘the theatre’, and it instilled in me a love of live performance.  I still become excited to go to a show, even as an adult.  There is something magical to it all, and seeing a show never fails to leave me feeling like dreams can come true…..

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This afternoon I watched the documentary Every Little Step, which looks at the process of casting and creating the 2006 revival of A Chorus Line.  It follows a number of the 3,000+ who came to the open casting call, telling their stories, seeing their lives unfold, mirroring the story behind the musical.  At one point, one of the auditionees is asked what she will do if she doesn’t get a part, and she answers that she will continue to dance, however she can, because that is what she is meant to do, that is the best part of her.  And I had to stop, rewind, watch that part again….. what an amazing concept, what a beautiful thought…. doing what you do because you feel compelled, that you have to, because it is the best part of you.  THAT is how you should live life.  THAT is what should drive you.  But how do you define such a thing?  What about the rest of us, who aren’t ridiculously talented in one field, who haven’t been obsessively devoted to a passion our whole lives?  How do you find your best part?  And once you figure it out, how do you give it enough room to ensure growth and allow it to breathe?

I’ve been thinking about this all day, all evening, trying to pin down my “best part”, trying to flesh out what I feel I was put here to do.  It’s something I think I’ll be thinking about for days/weeks to come.  And I’m glad.  It’s a great way to continually evaluate life.   And I feel like I should end with some big revelation, but I’ve got nothing.  Yes, I’m creative.  Yes, I have a story I think is worth sharing and a voice to tell it with.  Someday, perhaps, someday….    But for right now, I have this space, and once in a while, I use it.

I, like many others out there, am my own worst critic.  This isn’t news to the 5 of you who read this and know me.  I can tear myself down quicker than a child ripping open a present on Christmas morning.  I defend this as a way to build myself up – I can be brutally honest with myself, and then figure out what needs to change or happen, what my next steps might be.  Most observers just see it as uncomfortable and overly-harsh.  And, as I’m sure more than a few of you could point out, I am often critical, with no follow-through, no next steps.  Just self-deprecation.

I bring this all up because lately I have been feeling a lack of self.  A loss of who I am, or at least, once was.  I used to be an artist, I used to be driven and engaged and creative and funky.  I used to have style, albeit a little strange.  I felt like all of my pieces fit together correctly.  Which is funny, because I don’t feel like I’ve ever felt that way, but looking back, it seems that that is who Becky of 5  or 8 years ago was.  So what changed?  I’m not sure.  Was it getting a desk job?  Turning away from the world of an artist?  That may have been a step towards this, whatever this is.  This feeling of not fitting in my own skin.

Another big change is Calliope.  73 days ago, I gave birth to a baby girl.  The most beautiful baby girl.  She is incredible and I love her more than I can even imagine putting into words.  And I had 9 months to prepare for this life change, of becoming a mother.  But I never thought about what it would mean to be a mother to a girl.  I suddenly realize what a task it could be, to raise a girl in this society, to teach her that being skinny, being blond, being all those things that the media tells us we need to be is just not so.  That beauty can be defined and imagined in countless ways.  That self-worth comes from within, not from what anyone else ever says.  These thoughts, these weighty thoughts swirl around my head as I tell her how beautiful she is, as I kiss her cheeks and pinch at her chubby little thighs.  And I realize that to be that momma, to be the momma who can instill confidence and worth, I need to feel those things about myself.  I need to work out whatever this feeling of lack is, and change it, turn it on it’s head.  I need to teach by example.  And never in my life has something seemed so important.  I want nothing more than for my daughter to grow up healthy, in every sense of the word, of knowing full well that she is worth any dream she could possibly imagine.  To never limit herself.  And so, I need to understand that about myself.  To stop limiting myself.  To get off my lazy ass and start, whatever that entails.

And today, I did.  I took a first step.  A small step, but one forward, which is the only way to go.  Today I took her shopping.  Not at a big box store, not at the mall, where all the trends are set, where a season is defined by what’s “hot”.  No, we went to a thrift store.  I picked out a few random pieces of clothing, she helped me decide which seemed right for me, and then we were done.  My whole life I shopped at thrift stores.  Going to one was a special time for my mum and I, and I grew up loving them.  But somewhere in the last 5 years I lost that desire to go hunting for finds.  I’ve been taking the easy way out, letting the shiny store windows tell me what to wear.  But no more.  This love of thrift stores is something I want to pass down to my daughter, and it started today.

One of the things about my particular flavor of crazy is how I react to the unexpected. I am normally a functioning, logical human being. But once in a while, there is a hiccup in “the plan” that will completely throw me. Something doesn’t go according to how it had played out in my mind, and I shut down. Any sense of logic or rational thought become foreign concepts and my brain races through any number of worst-case scenarios, settling on the one that creates the most panic deep down, welling up and out in all sorts of unhealthy and spastic ways.

Recently, my life has been dealing with the unexpected. I research and plan, take all necessary precautions and actions to ensure the outcome I desire. But it’s not enough, and I stand here feeling helpless, my need (and ability) to control ripped from me. The worst-case scenario has been established. My situation is so far from becoming my worst-case scenario, and I know that. I recognize that my ‘big deal’ is so minor, so insignificant to what countless thousands have gone through, to even put myself in a parallel category is laughable. And I’ve been handling it – trying to stay positive and not over-react – but I am still caught off guard now and then, finding rage and tears uncomfortably close to the surface.

Life’s little ironies spitting in my face, having a good chuckle on me.

But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe this time I can be a better person. Maybe I can learn to (finally) let go a little, loosen the grip, take things one day at a time. I’ve been working on that. And once in a while, I’m caught off guard by the calm I feel. Not often, mind you, but here and there, I am able to sit and smile and be ok with where I am.

Birthdays have always been bittersweet for me. Specifically, my birthday. Now don’t get me wrong, I love presents and cake. But being adopted, this day, the whole reason behind it, the whole reason for me, left me feeling a little sad. I didn’t know my birth story, didn’t know the woman who carried me for 9 months, didn’t know the circumstances. There were just a lot of unanswered questions. A piece of me (a very important piece) was missing, and each year on that day I was reminded of it’s absence.

Also, I hate attention. I don’t deal well with people complimenting me or focusing on me for very long, so the day felt slightly torturous in that regard.

But, having met my birthmom, I now know my birth story. I know the woman who made this huge decision with my best interest in mind. And I am so grateful for that. It’s helped me deal with birthdays with a little more grace.

And yesterday I discovered that holding themed parties helps! Mustache Madness was a blast, and my friends were willing to come over, don facial hair, and have a great time (without really focusing on the fact that it was my birthday… although that may be because a lot of them still don’t know.).

Then

Now

I know, it’s been two months since my last post.  Because I suck.  But, no one really reads this, so I don’t feel so bad.  And everyone that does have already heckled me in person about not posting sooner.  Here.  This is for you.

Anyway. I found this through some other blog weeks ago, and was just completely blown away.  I think this is beautiful and amazing, and, well, lovely.  Take a watch.  

If you visit the whoisamy site, you can learn more about it all, which I did. And then you can sign up to be an Ambassador of Lovely (which, by the way, is the best title ever!) which, of course, I also did! Hooray for loveliness. And awesome titles.

My folks were not big into music or pop culture as a whole when I was a child.  From the stories they tell, it seemed they were ‘hip’ at some point of their adult lives, but that point came long before I did.  One thing I do remember distinctly was my dad’s favorite album and band.  I can’t pinpoint at what age I could recognize it for what it was, but it exists in my mind with some of my earliest memories.  

My dad had a den in a small room under the stairs.  The entryway was always dark and going down there was an act that took a huge force of will, swallowing down nerves created through an overly-active imagination.  But thinking back, maybe my fright was not a creature all of my own making.  You see, my dad’s favorite album is “The Wall”, and it has been there for him in dark, desperate times in a way that few humans have.  Each fall, late November until almost January, my dad would spend his days in a rage, his nights sleepless, as he relived, over and over, what I am guessing are the two worst months of his life – the two worst months he spent in Vietnam during his tour in ‘68.   Throughout those months each year, he would crank the stereo with The Wall in, trying to drown out the demons, often screaming along to the lyrics.  So maybe my fear of going down to that room was well-founded after all…  The helicopters and sparse guitar of Another Brick in the Wall in particular scared the wits out of me.  

As I grew older, though, I began to hear the music for what it was – wonderful, breathtaking, astonishing.  (The list could go on and on, but I’ll spare you.)  Pink Floyd was the music of car trips in my youth, yet it was also the music of aggression, the music of my father.  While it no longer makes me want to ‘drop and cover’, it still plays a large part in my life, and is a band that will always stick with me.  And one day, Dad, I hope you get to share this music with my kids.  But if you aren’t still here, aren’t able to, know that I will sit with them and we will listen, and I’ll tell them about what a great man my father was.

Ok, here’s the basics.  The absolutely bare-bones basics.

I’m adopted.  I’ve known this my whole life, like I’ve known I have blue eyes.  There was no big “talk”, no sit-down with my parents where they gently break the news to me, no shocking discovery of documents in the bottom of a drawer.  It’s just been a fact of my existence, part of who I am.  

My parents, my mum and dad – the ones who raised me and changed my diapers and have supported me since I was two months old – are wonderful people with a messy, messy past.  To give you an idea, they met while serving in Vietnam in 1968.  This past has made a number of appearances throughout my life, mostly in the form of chronic PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).   

I have been battling depression since I was 12 or so.  It runs rampant in my family (see PTSD, directly above), and I later found out that it’s also genetic.  

I have met and know my biological families.  I am close with my bio-mom, her husband, and my younger half brother, and share Christmas cards with many others.  These extensions of family are huge, and while I am not in touch with them as much as I should or would like to be, I am extremely grateful for how open and accepting they have been.

I married my high school sweetheart at 22.  (I recognize that it’s sickenly sweet, but once you get to know us, you’d realize it’s not.)  Extremely young, I know, much younger than I ever thought I would be, but it felt right, and still does.  We’re young and overly responsible.  His grandmother had a saying of him – he could fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like roses – and this sort of good fortune has seemed to rub off on me too over the years.

Everyone – if you’re doing it right – has a story to tell.  Some will be adventures, some misadventures, some romance, some repeats.  But they are there.

I, too, have a story.  It’s not neat and tidy, nor is it overly messy.  What it is, though, is unique.  At twenty-six, I have been through and experienced some things I am grateful for, and some I wish I could forget.  Now, don’t fret, I don’t lack perspective with all of this.  I know I am fortunate.  There are people my age who have been to hell and back.  This is not a competition, and if it was, I wouldn’t win.  Hell, I probably wouldn’t even rank.  But again, I reiterate, there’s this unique story… and I hope that by putting it out there not only will I be able to make better sense of it, but also it may be of interest to others. 

I apologize now for what will inevitably be fragmented and oft-confusing.  I have told many pieces of this story before to many different people, but have never tried to weave it all together.  This is that attempt.