The Power of Words

The Saturday morning before the 4th of July, I was doing what most folks I know were doing: poking around in the garden, meandering on walking trails and bike paths, and parked on the lakefront relishing in the longed-for summer weather. When the mid-day sun had kissed my shoulders long enough, I retreated indoors to cool off, to raid the fridge, and to check my electronic devices. 

My intent was to grab a healthy snack, a cool drink, and venture out to the terrace. Under the oak tree’s ample branches, I envisioned reclining on one of the lime cushioned lounge chairs, devouring my lunch, and resuming the biographical novel that had attacked my free time (Beneath A Scarlet Sky by Mark Sullivan). The power of the author’s words was as compelling as the characters and the setting.  

At the kitchen charging station, my eyebrows inched under my bangs when I spotted a voicemail from my birth mother. Against my better judgment and before addressing my hunger pains, I listened to her message: a recitation of a demanding schedule at the senior living center where she lives with my step-dad. The laundry list of lame excuses didn’t satisfy me.  Why had she let thirteen days elapse before returning my last phone call?

My adoptive mother had trained me differently than this other mother of mine. Mom’s advice, words I heard often throughout my teen years, ricocheted between my double piercings: Not returning phone calls timely is both rude and hurtful. To do so conveys the wrong message- that you find the person less important than everything else on your plate.  Mom was right. The effect of the delayed return call had made me feel unimportant and forgotten. Despite being middle-aged and years of group therapy, I have struggled with keeping vulnerability and feelings of rejection within a normal range.

I shooed away what felt like childish whining and reminded myself that my birthmother was old, turned 86 in December, and that my step-dad’s Parkinson’s wasn’t stable. Eager to keep our reunion, now in its eighth year, chugging along, I have a habit of polishing over the nicks in my birth mom’s armor. My adoption support group has coached me in the dangers of that practice, but standing up to my birth mom when she sidelines me is worse than being called to the principal’s office. Honestly, both make me weak in knees.

Low blood sugar won out. Instead of adding to our game of telephone tag, I pulled out a yummy, pre-made salad from Whole Foods and a chilled pitcher of fresh sun tea. Refusing to dwell on the tardy phone call or my adoption on such a spectacular day, I scrolled through emails on my laptop. Several items escaped the trash bin. 

The first was a set of inspirational quotes I receive daily to help stimulate positivity and creativity.  The second was a blog post entitled, “Today I Give Myself Permission To…” followed by an essay from a fellow adoptee sharing her opinion about some negative consequences of adoption.  Instead of devouring the novel’s latest chapter in a lounge chair, I snacked at the kitchen counter on a hard stool. As I picked at the salad, I considered listening to the voicemail again but clicked on the inspirational quotes instead (see https://www.quotes-daily.com). 

This one resonated: 

We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how to respond to them. – Epictetus. 

Epictetus’ words couldn’t have been more appropriate, and they couldn’t have come at a better time. So how should I respond to my on-and-off-again first mother? Call her back or wait for her to follow-up as she’d promised in the voicemail.  When I spoke to her, should I admit how her tardy response made me feel, or should I invoke ‘turnabout as fair play’, a strategy whereby I avoided her contact in return? 

There were other things to consider. The iced tea in my right hand may have numbed my fingers, but why should I let a self-involved old woman freeze up my heart?  Shouldn’t I take the high road and offer the woman I worked diligently to locate some leeway? Coming up empty as to what to do next, I opened the second email linking me to a fellow adoptee’s website to The Consequences of Adoption No One Talks About. I read: 

Adoption is a joyous thing for many, a huge sacrifice in the name of love. But many people only talk and think about the positive aspects of adoption. How birth mothers are sacrificing to give their children a better life, how couples that can’t have children can create a family, how ‘unwanted’ children can become part of a family. In my experience, you never hear a negative thing about adoption…

 

Many children and adult adoptees are perfectly fine with their situation and seem to be OK with their adoption. However, a lot of adoptees face long-term problems related to their adoption, starting in childhood. There has been numerous studies done about the correlation between mental illness, disabilities, substance abuse disorder and adoption…

 

You could say I’m lucky because I’ve met my birth mom on several occasions and we had a good relationship, but the constant accepting and rejecting I got from her, after our good five years, just brought back more abandonment issues and more issues with my adoption. Why didn’t she want me, then and now? What did I do wrong? Why am I not good enough? 

The timing of this narrative was uncanny. The words not only resonated, they corroborated my own internal bantering.  Like the inspirational quote above, the blogger’s message seemed written for me to read. Today. At this moment. 

I shut my laptop, and I closed my eyes as if both these acts would lower the curtain on the drama playing out on my personal stage. In doing so, I realized my laptop was just like my eyes, a portal allowing access to information and people. The ability to connect to compelling narratives, inspirational words and other like-minded adoptees were things I craved as much as the ready-made salad and morning exercise. 

Once again, I lifted the computer cover and flipped back to the email containing inspirational quotes.  I read: 

We can always choose to perceive things differently. You can focus on what’s wrong in your life, or you can focus on what’s right. -Marianne Williamson.  

More powerful healing words. Words that hit a sweet spot, satisfied, consoled. Still thirsty for more solace, I scrolled down to the last flagged email and scanned it. Halfway down, I hit pay dirt: 

1) Give yourself permission to claim at least 10 to 15 minutes of quiet time for yourself each day; check in with how you’re feeling and what you most need right now in your personal and professional life.

 

2) Jot a few notes down in your journal to gain a fresh perspective; If you don’t have a journal, give yourself permission to buy one for a stream of consciousness writing to process your thoughts and feelings.

 

3) Decide on what you most need to give yourself permission for today and write that in your journal too; Ask a trusted friend or colleague to support you to follow through on your chosen priority (www.JuliaMcCutchen.com/blog).  

Powerful words. Excellent timing.  Permission to take the time I needed to filter and process. Satisfied, I returned my cell to the charging station, shut the Mac, and tucked the novel under my elbow. Summer was waiting for me. With more ice in my drink and a shored-up attitude, I settled into a vibrant green cushion on the patio. Something occurred to me. While one electronic device had been the vehicle delivering a hurtful sentiment, the others provided needed compassion.  Flipping to the dog-eared page of my novel, I considered the power of words.  

Words can hurt.  Words can heal.  Words can engage and entertain.  I gave myself permission to be entertained.

Available on Amazon!