Decided

I am indecisive.

All of the proof to support that statement can be found at 7:00am in my closet, as I stand in my underwear ripping clothes off hangers and walking back and forth between my wardrobe and the mirror. Occassionally, I pick out my clothes the night before - laid out neatly on a chair. Even more rare than that kind of organization is that I feel like wearing that particular outfit come morning. Some mornings are a two or three outfits kind of event, while others are a closet-destroying fiasco. I'm just not very good at making decisions - whether pairing pants and shoes or narrowing down a meal for myself.

I guess that's why I'm so surprised at how easily I came to decide that I would come back to school. I knew it would be a hard year. I knew I would be tired, that I'd be sick of the travel and I knew - without a doubt - that I'd miss F more than I could comprehend.

So far, I'm three for three: I am exhausted, I hate traveling back to Cape Breton and the thought of waking up without F brings a tear to my eye. Being away from him has resulted in a dull pain in my chest that just never goes away. I both look forward to and dread weekends, knowing I'll enjoy my time with him but that leaving (or watching him leave) will break my Mommy heart again.

There have been many moments when I've found myself wondering what the Hell I'd been thinking when I signed up for this year, but as time goes on I'm finding myself feeling more and more at peace with my decision. Even though I'm missing moments I'll never get back, I know I'm setting up the stage for many great memories in our future.

I guess some decisions are easier to make than others.

Unchanged

It's amazing how quickly things can change.

Back in October, I wrote about my feelings on being adopted. Just a few days later I shared the excitement of knowing my birth mom had happily received my letter. When I first wrote my letter, I didn't really know what to expect. It was emotional, to say the least, and terrifying every step of the way. I anxiously prepared for the worst, and I am thrilled at the way things have turned out.

It's been two weeks now that I've been in constant contact with my Birth Mom (BM), my siblings and one of my uncles and I've never felt so at ease - though the fact that I'm on anti-anxiety medication may play a role in that. It's weird to go from feeling unsure of who you are to feeling complete so suddenly. Learning about the quirks I share with people I've never met has somehow given me and understanding of who I am and the power to become who I really want to be.

It's even more amazing how, in spite of everything that goes on in our lives, that any of us can remain the same.

A few friends have expressed concern that I might suddenly change - or have a total meltdown, which admittedly could happen - as my world begins to catch up to speed in the aftermath of finding my birth mom. By my own admission, I've been hiding in the woodworks for the past week or so just trying to catch my breath and steady myself. But I'm still me. I'm still all of the things I was before.

I'm still a MacInnis - unless I plan to have that expensive, ghastly-scar-leaving tattoo removal - and I will always be a MacInnis. It's kind of like a gang. There's no getting out! (Just kidding - we're so awesome, people keep trying to get into the clan)

In spite of wearing high heels and living in the city, I'm still a rubber-boot wearing girl who snorts when she laughs and prefers beer and lobster over pasta and wine. Well, unless the pasta includes lobster. And I've never turned down wine before.

Although I've been lucky enough to gain a whole new family, I like my old family just fine and they are irreplaceable. People like Mom and Dad, my grandparents, aunts, uncles and some (alright, all) of my cousins are few and far between in this world.

Upcoming

I always wanted to be a writer.

I've spent most of my life writing - diaries, short stories, poems, letters. Before I had the words to write stories, I would draw them out (just ask my parents - I'm sure they spent a small fortune on notebooks and pencils for me). I just love it. I love words. In spite of spending hours and hours writing, I never considered myself a writer.

Now I do.

Since my first steps back in September, I've pitter-pattered down the path to where I am today. To being a writer. To finally being me. A year ago, I couldn't see it but now it's all I see. Words.

I remember being a teenager - maybe even a pre-teen - and telling Dad I was going to write a book. He recommended I go all J.K. Rowling and become a household name. I swore I was going to, but that conviction walked out around the same time my belief that I was going to marry Brad Pitt left. A hundred times, I've sat down and typed out pages but I've fizzled out, losing interest or direction. Years passed, and I didn't care if I wrote again. After churning out academic papers in university, I lost my love for writing. It had become a chore.

When I started writing again, the fire that I used to feel was reignited. The urge to write a book came back, and while I often joke that I can't write it as long as Mom and Dad can still read, the truth is that it's coming. In fact, it started 24 years ago when a then 18-year-old woman kissed me goodbye.

I don't know how long it will take, but you can safely hold your breath. It's coming.