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Grapevine Online Exclusive - September 2014

A few days ago, I was at a speaker meeting in which a woman named Lisa told her story. I didn’t expect to hear anything more than I usually hear, which is always helpful in some small way. I didn’t expect to be moved more so than I am usually moved. Lisa is half-Japanese. She grew up on Long Island. She is probably 20 years my senior. There’s nothing terribly similar about our lives, and nothing stands out to me now as the reason I was drawn to her immediately, but I was. Something about her face was familiar, kind. She started to tell her story, and I was captivated. I could identify, of course, with a lot of her childhood angst and discomfort, but it was more than that.

Before I got sober, I could never really hear anyone. Now I could truly listen to other people. So, I listened to Lisa. She told how at 17 years old she gave up a child for adoption. She described the feelings she had after she gave birth and the child was taken from her. She said something like, “I felt that all the air had been taken out of me, away from me. I felt empty and alone. I was confused and afraid. I didn’t know how to do anything, how to live.”

I really heard her. I heard her, and I understood what she’d felt in those terrible moments. And I cried. I tried to dry my tears with one finger, instead smudging the mascara under my eyes. Lisa continued with her story.

I raised my hand to share. I don’t share very often—not because I don’t have joy to share or sadness for which I need support, but because I really do love to listen to my fellows. But this time, I felt a powerful need to share.

I told Lisa and the group that she had given me a great gift: the gift of sympathy. I told her that when I was an active alcoholic, I never felt sympathy. I never felt anything. Alcohol had numbed me for so many years. I didn’t even understand what other people meant when they said they felt sympathy or empathy. I knew how to behave as if I felt those same things, but I didn’t really feel them. I had, for various powerful reasons, kept feelings at a distance. I explained to Lisa, and to the group, that my biological mother, who had given me up for adoption at birth and whom I had never known, had tracked me down some years ago.

I had seven Bloody Marys before meeting her. She’d found me, and I was angry. She’d found me, and when we met, she asked me to forgive her, and I didn’t say anything. I held on to my anger for a while, and then I let it fade into indifference. I let the relationship become one of occasional emails and the box of pears I sent her at Christmas.

Not once in the years since she found me—her name is Leslie—had I thought about what she had gone through when she gave me up. Not once did I try to put myself in her shoes. And then, I heard Lisa’s story. I thanked her for that very precious gift, and I thanked the group and AA for giving me the ability to accept this gift. I cried. A lot. That evening, I wrote to my biological mother. I told her the whole story. I told her of my anger when she tracked me down, and I told her of my gratitude for AA and for Lisa. This is some of what I said to her in that letter:

“The truth? Being adopted has affected me in many ways, both good and bad. But I’m not writing to you about that today. I’m writing to you to say thank you for making the difficult choice to put me up for adoption. I am so grateful for the life I have had as a result. Until yesterday, I knew it had to have been difficult, but I never fully grasped the pain and fear you must have felt. So, there’s this part of me now that wants to say, ‘Let’s really get to know each other.’ There’s this part of me that wants a hug from you so much, and to hug you right back. But there’s this other part of me that is afraid. I am afraid. But I suppose I hope we can make some small steps forward. Maybe we can just start to email more often and maybe talk sometimes on the phone.”

I would never have written that letter had I not learned about listening to other people and feeling sympathy for their circumstances.

Stephanie R.

Long Island, New York