April 2024

By Karen Stinger

I participate in a writing group for adoptees and NPEs. We meet every week to share our writing and discuss our experiences, healing, where to go from here, and everything in between. It’s the best therapy I’ve ever experienced for this excruciating wound I’ve never been able to adequately explain to anyone who isn’t also adopted or from our community. For us, togetherness heals.

Seven months ago in our writing group, we were given an assignment to break an ugly mug, feel our feelings, and then write about it. I didn’t want to do it. It would make a mess. There would be broken glass. I would only feel annoyed about it and then have to clean it up. I just did not want to deal with it. So, I didn’t. 

Those of us in the group who didn’t want to break something were challenged to consider the anger we felt and to contemplate ways we could move it out of our bodies and out of our hearts. I have felt so much anger surrounding my adoption experience and for so many reasons. Yet, I haven’t done much with this assignment either, other than write about it and share it with the group. So, I’m sure it is no surprise, I’ve remained angry.

Last week, for my 50^th birthday, for the very first time in our lives, four of us biological siblings were reunited in person to celebrate. We celebrated togetherness, family, inclusion, kindness, generosity, compassion, and time together.  We experienced mirroring, recognizing how much we looked alike and had similar mannerisms. We laughed and we cried. And when we cried, we held each other and cried together. When we parted, it was with a date set for the next reunion and a sibling tattoo in the works so that we can carry each other on our bodies wherever we go in the future.

After everyone left, I sat alone contemplating our week together and all that took place. I suddenly decided it was time to release the rage. Time to let go. Time to break the anger. Without any planning, I took a wine bottle left empty from the week, a hammer, some old rags, and an empty box from Costco. I took a photo of the wine bottle and asked my stepson to take photos as I started in. 

With my first crack at the bottle, it made an interesting acoustic sound, and the hammer bounced back. No damage was done. With my second whack, the same thing happened, but this time, my three dogs, looking very annoyed, got up and went into the house. Four more tries and the damn thing still wouldn’t crack. Wow! Should I be learning something from this? Is this bottle mirroring me? Finally, with the seventh effort, it let go. Sweet relief.

The sobs began rising up.

A few beautiful green shards of glass from the bottle fell out from under the rag. Vibrant. Sparkly. Brilliant.

Tears streamed down my cheeks.

I unfolded the rag to photograph the remnants of the bottle. The once beautiful label was slightly torn and blemished, yet exquisitely perfect, and surrounded by bits of jeweled green glass, glimmering in the sunlight.

I felt myself sparkling with release as the anger and fury drained from my body.