The Sorrow and the (Self) Pity

I spent my recent birthday alone for most of the day.  It fell on a Sunday this year, and Sundays are Charlie’s only full day with his dad, a routine I did not wish to disrupt for either of them.  Some of my friends may have been available for a celebratory get together, but I chose not to mention it to any of them.

Historically, my birthday has been a rough time for me.  I’m adopted, and the “birthday blues” is a fairly common anniversary reaction.  There were the parties when I was a child: seeing my parents go all out to make my day special, providing much anticipated gifts, my favorite meal, cake, ice cream, warm regards from friends and family, and, inexplicably, me in tears.  It seemed like the more I was showered with love, the more undeserving I felt. The happiness and excitement of the day dissolved into sadness and longing year after year. 

So I’ve learned to keep it “low key” and I rarely reveal my birthday to others as the date approaches.  My “ex” even forgot more than once.  Last year I declined a heart-felt invitation for a lovely dinner of homemade crab cakes; my dear friend Jaime wanted to share her affection for me by providing this special treat but, grateful as I was for her gesture, I knew I needed room to feel sad or lousy as needed, that any pressure I placed upon myself to be cheerful and upbeat would likely be met with an equal “shadow” of that grief and longing.

I wish I knew the circumstances of my conception and birth.  I wish I knew my first family, that my mother would tell me that she loved me, that she really wanted me, that my origin was not just a big mistake.  I wish I could be free of these reflexive feelings of unworthiness (of love, affection, help and support or even material gifts from others) that are part of my experience of being relinquished to adoption. 

Perhaps one day NY State will open currently sealed birth records and I will have a chance to find and reunite with my first family, and perhaps through this process my birthday blues will fade away.  In the meantime, I do not expect these feelings to be healed, cleansed or transcended away, nor do I need them to be.  Instead, I find peace by acknowledging and accepting them as they are, and learning to work with them.  Contrary to the concern my mom expressed, I did not spend my birthday brooding or steeped in self-pity.  I enjoyed breakfast with Charlie at one of my favorite restaurants, then came home to a nurturing solitude.  I played guitar, read, wrote.  Made a lovely meal.  Spoke with family and appreciated well wishes from friends on facebook.  Ironically, being alone for the day left me filled with gratitude for the wonderful people in my life. 

Having this time for reflection helped me open to a new perspective.  I’m the sort of person who is more comfortable assisting others than accepting help, offering compliments rather than getting them, giving rather than receiving love.  Maybe it is time for that to change.  Maybe the next step in settling that “unworthiness” reflex is to allow others to more actively nurture me, to face the immense vulnerability I feel at the thought of acknowledging a desire for appreciation and affection.  To not protest or resist when others try to give me material or immaterial gifts.  To accept those crab cakes next time, or even say, hey, it’s my birthday—let’s get together!  I can feel the door opening; we’ll see what next year brings.