Guest Post by Sherry Espinosa -- The Identity Box
Earlier this year, I heard the words “adoptee” and “adoptee trauma” for the first time. It’s hard to believe that I had no idea the ongoing trauma adoptees like myself experience. One of the many struggles adoptees face is not having a strong sense of self. I know that, for me, it doesn’t feel safe to show my true self because it could mean rejection and abandonment. I’ve always just become the person others need me to be. Since learning about adoptee trauma, my mind has been flooded with memories from my entire life. I remembered this story from 23 years ago. The memory came rushing in like it happened yesterday.
When my kids were finally in school all day and didn’t need as much of my time, I decided to take a class or two at the local community college to see if anything piqued my interest. Before I could sign up for a class, I was required to talk about my goals with one of the school counselors. The counselor told me about a class she facilitated called Women in Transition. She thought it was the best starting point for adult women returning to school after a long period of time off. Her class was a great way to meet new friends and get to know the campus better. I instantly felt safe with her and was excited to get started.
Our first assignment was to create an “Identity Box” to share with the class so we could get to know each other better. I thought it sounded like a fun project. I could choose any kind of box I wanted and decorate it with whatever floated my boat—things like glitter, stickers and drawings using markers and colored pencils, words and pictures cut out of magazines, etc. After that, I was supposed to put several significant objects inside the box that helped identify me. I went home with this assignment feeling slightly off-kilter, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
When I got home, I sat down at my desk to start the project. So I sat there… and sat there… and sat there, frozen. Why can’t I even pick a box? That’s weird. I mean come on, my 6-year-old and 7-year-old would be knocking this assignment out of the park. I decided to give it a rest and come back to it later. When the next day rolled around, I sat down to get started and, again, I was completely stumped. It felt like out of nowhere I began uncontrollably sobbing. I was coming to the realization that I had no idea who I was. I mean, what did I even like? What was I interested in? Oh my God—who am I? This fun project was beginning to feel like a cruel joke. Frustrated to the point of wanting to quit this bullshit class, I had to walk away again.
I didn’t quit. Believe me when I tell you that every fiber of my being was screaming, “Just quit! This whole thing is a waste of time. You don’t need to be creating an identity box at this age anyway. You’re not like other people. You’re dark and twisty inside. The truth is, your box would be ugly with a lot of blackness and sadness on it and in it. Trust me, nobody wants to see that. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop it!” But, I knew this class was going to be good for me in the long run, so I pushed through the raging battle going on inside of my head. I hastily threw something together so I wouldn’t be the only one without a completed project. I couldn’t bear walking into the classroom empty handed.
The next morning, I brought my project with me in my backpack. As I entered the room and took a look around, I saw an assortment of extravagant identity boxes. I mean seriously, they were beautiful. I could see elegant drawings with ribbons and glitter woven throughout. There was an array of ornate wooden, jeweled, metal and cardboard boxes. I was astonished by the amount of time and level of detail my classmates poured into this project, not to mention the utter shock I felt as I witnessed everyone’s eagerness to share. As the presentations began, not only were the outside of the boxes interesting, the inside had all kinds of cherished trinkets, memorabilia and photos with attached personal stories.
I was trying to listen, but I knew that soon enough all eyes would be focused on me. I could feel a panic attack coming on. Tick-tock went the clock as one more person finished their presentation. Their words were becoming more and more garbled like I was trying to listen from underwater. Of course, no one would know how upset I was by looking at me. When I was very young, I mastered the skill of looking calm on the outside while, on the inside, there’s a level five tornado whirling around ripping my guts apart.
Eventually, I heard the muffled words, “Okay, Sherry, you’re up.” My heart leapt into my throat and my breathing became shallow. I suddenly felt a rush of blood pounding in my ears and my head felt pressurized. I was moving in slow motion as I pulled my identity box from my backpack.
It was a small, basic brown paper lunch sack and it was completely blank. I didn’t write anything on it, not even my name. Nothing, nada, zilch, zip. At least when I made my kids’ lunches, I wrote their names in different colored markers with hearts and flowers and maybe a bee or two. I even put a little note in there reminding them how awesome they are and that I love them and hope they have a fantastic day.
Inside my identity box(bag), were a bunch of torn up pieces of white printer paper. I didn’t even use scissors—just my hands. It was actually kind of violent the way I ripped up that piece of paper. I scribbled words like angry, sad and pain on some of the pieces. I can’t remember what else I wrote on those pathetic little strips of paper, but I know for sure that I did not read aloud what I had written. I just sat there, with my crumpled brown bag on my lap, while tears streamed down my cheeks. I wasn’t able to speak. The teacher was very kind and knew to just move on. After class, she pulled me aside and asked if I needed to talk. I politely declined her offer.
Needless to say, I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. There were several ladies breaking off into groups to have conversations about their identity boxes and things they had in common. I don’t know if this is true, but in my mind it was true. Of course friendships were forming, that was the whole point of this exercise. These women had just shared intimate details about themselves—that’s how bonding and connection happens, isn’t it?
Not only was my panic attack still lingering, now I was feeling like a complete outcast, exposed and alone. Even though I did not share anything about myself, I experienced a level of vulnerability that was extremely painful. I exposed my inability to be “normal” like everyone else. I exposed my broken-ness in front of complete strangers. For me, this was horrifying—absolutely horrifying.
So, I grabbed my backpack and my unidentifiable lunch sack, and made a beeline for the door. Since everyone was busy connecting, they didn’t even notice me. Again, in my mind, no one wanted me to approach them because I was different and it would be awkward. I was on a mission to escape without making eye contact with anyone. I quickly made it out into the hallway and was on my way to freedom. Just before I exited the building, I tossed my identity project in the trash.
You can read more of Sherry’s work here: Www.SherryLynnEspinosa.com
