Going Viral

Some of you who are dialed in to the adoptee rights movement or are in some other way involved in adoption stuff may have noticed the onslaught of FB pictures of adoptees searching for the mothers & families. While I’m happy that it has worked for some and it’s a great resource for those of us who live under the oppression of sealed records, it also saddens and angers me greatly. The fact that any of these men & women have to publicly beg for a tiny shred of information, all the while facing some very sharp criticism from well-meaning (and not-so-well-meaning) people is demeaning and dehumanizing. People like to drone on about “privacy” - but if adoptees had the right to access their own birth records, then that “privacy” (which is a myth, by the way) could be respected much more by not forcing adoptees to blast their information all over FB and the internet. What should be personal and yes, private, is now very public. But I don’t even want to get into the open records spiel. I want to get at the public perception of adoption and reunion and this romanticized image that people have of the whole ordeal. Everyone loves a warm and fuzzy happy reunion full of tears and hugs. They like to be voyeurs to something that is so fraught with emotion and get caught up in the happiness and joy of it all. But what they don’t see, what the television talk shows and newspaper stories and viral photos don’t tell you, is the incredible aftermath. Meeting your family and suddenly having your dreams of what could have been turn into the reality of what should have been can leave a person feeling devastated. The term “roller coaster” has been used to describe it, and it’s an apt description. The initial highs can be followed by some very deep and profound lows. Nobody who has not lived it can possibly understand the paradox of meeting your own family, but knowing you’ll never really be a true part of that family, because it’s impossible to make up for that lifetime of memories and shared experiences that truly make us “family.” It’s seeing parts of yourself reflected back in the features and actions and attitudes, for the first time in your life, and FINALLY understanding exactly who you are. It’s like coming home, but knowing you will never be able to stay. Because the push and the pull from other parts of your life make it impossible. Your adoptive family feels betrayed; your friends think you need to forget it and move on; your SO just wants the “old” you back, the one who wasn’t constantly obsessing over every tiny detail of every moment spent with your new-found relatives. The one who still had time for them and wasn’t so wrapped up in this new discovery. And then times goes on, things kind of even out, but distance makes it hard to develop a relationship and your own fears of abandonment force you to keep a comfortable distance. For me, the fact that my mother kicked me out of her life twice, really made me afraid. I thought, well, if my own mother can walk away from me, what’s to stop the rest of the family? And so we pull back. We distance ourselves to protect ourselves from the inevitable fallout that we feel certain is going to come. And this pull back is often misunderstood, seen as a lack of interest or maybe a rejection of them of sorts, but we are afraid – afraid to make our feelings known because all our lives, we have been expected to keep our feelings in check in the interest of not hurting our adoptive parents or upsetting someone. Because we are expendable; we are the second choice children, society is quick to remind us, we have no right to this life because our mothers could have taken us out of it via abortion and we’d better be good and grateful. It’s a hard thing to shake, even for the strongest of us. This is why records should be open (ok, ok, I brought up the records). This is why it’s so sad to see my fellow adoptees, my fellow human beings, resorting to these public displays of pleading which might very well pay off, but at what price? We should all be allowed to know the most basic information about ourselves…who we are, where we came from, who we were before our birth certificates were legally falsified and the originals locked away forever. And then you have the nay-sayers…the “you don’t know what you’re going to find, you might not like the outcome, I know a person who was adopted and had a bad experience and now has nothing to do with her birth family!” Really? Well good for your friend. I’m glad she knows. It is her right, and what happened after reunion is also her right. I often tell people (ok, I don’t, but I would LIKE to) that we can’t get closure from fantasies. We can’t come to terms with only our imagination. No matter what the truth is, good or bad, at least it can be DEALT with and processed. It is only through knowing the truth and, if it is indeed not pretty, being able to face it is the only thing that will allow us to heal and become stronger. Society recognizes the value of facing all sorts of problems and traumas…we know that to “bottle it up” is unhealthy, yet adopted people are expected to do just that. Bottle it up, get over it, ignore it, just stfu and be grateful. Really, it’s no wonder so many serial killers are adopted…we’re expected to somehow magically get over something without ever being allowed to talk about it, to process it, to explore our own feelings for the sake of those around us. Including complete strangers who think they need to give their opinion on something they know jack about. So what exactly is the point I’m trying to make…I don’t even know. Lord knows I’ve made a ton of mistakes in my own reunion, and I can say it’s been a mixture of both good and bad. But it’s mine and mine alone, and no matter what has happened, I’m glad I did it. I wish some things could have been different, I wish I had done some things better, but at least I KNOW and can have peace with that. I just hope that all my fellow adoptees get the same opportunity and wish that someday, they can all do it privately, in their own time, without having to get the approval of complete strangers or beg like children for a crumb of information. Let’s stop the inhumanity.

On being "chosen"

A lot of people like to adoptees that we're special; that we were "chosen" and should therefore feel really good and blessed and happy. It seems to be a favorite (right after "you could have been aborted," which if you think of it, how does one go from being a worthless and unwanted thing to be gotten rid of to being special and chosen in one breath? Talk about a mind fuck). I know I heard it, I think pretty much all of my adoptee friends have heard it too.

As a young child I really used to buy into it too. I would imagine my parents driving to the adoption agency, their faces lit up with these huge grins of anticipation, their hearts pounding as they arrived at the place where they would CHOOSE THEIR BABY. I pictured a big room filled with other adoptive parents just like mine, and soon a line of ladies would come from an inconspicuous wooden door off in the corner, each one smiling brightly as they each carried a plump and adorable baby dressed in white cotton dresses with eyelet trim. These babies would then be passed around the room, from adoptive parent to adoptive parent, and whoever was holding the baby when she stopped crying would "choose" that baby and they'd adopt her and go live happily ever after.

I had an active imagination as a child.

Chosen...was I chosen?

My amom told me a story one time that before they adopted me, they had received a call from the adoption agency, telling them that a baby girl was available for adoption. She was everything that they had hoped for...except for one dark stain on her record, her mother had been on drugs. (Insert audible gasping in of breath). So my parents in all their parental wisdom decided NOT to take that particular baby. Which leads me to wonder; what if they had? What if they DID adopt this little girl? Then there'd be somebody ELSE sitting here in my chair, with my name and all my memories and living MY life. Who, then, would I have become? Where would I be? What would my name be? What kind of life would I be living?

For I sure as heck wouldn't be who I am today.

My parents waited until the NEXT little girl was available for adoption - mois - and the rest is history. But I don't think of it as being so much chosen as just being the next available baby for the people at the top of the list. They didn't come into a room and select me from a group of other babies. They didn't pass me around and keep me because I stopped crying for them. No, I am who I am because of simple logistics.

I wonder about that little baby that was passed up. Where is she now? WHO is she now? Did she get as good of parents as I did, or was she abused and mistreated? Does she know she came *this close* to being ME? If she went to the people who were next on the list after my parents, would I have went to them if she had been chosen by mine?

God it is such a mind fuck.

Girl's Night Out

So, I had a rare "girl's night" last night, one of those things that are so hard to do nowadays. It was nice - I like catching up with my girls and dishing about ex's and gossiping about this or that person. It's a nice break from everyday ho-hummery.

Besides the fact that on the way home I hit and killed a cat (which was very traumatic, I love cats), the friend who rode with me to the other friend's house was just triggering me up and down. This is the friend who I have known since high school; we have been through thick and thin, know each other VERY well, but she has always had a problem with my reunion and has been simply unwilling to support me in any way.

So as we made the 30 mile ride home, talking about our kids and the past and all that stuff, she started talking about her mom and dad and told me a story of how her son was absolutely devastated that grandpa couldn't come to his birthday party. And how her kids are staying at grandma's and how much they all love and adore their grandparents.

Nice stories - but it just drove home all that I've lost. My kids will never know their grandparents. I never got to give my mom the good news, "I'm having a baby!" which I know she would have been over the moon about. No dad to walk me down the aisle or dance the father-daughter dance. No nights at grandma's, no grandpa teaching them to ride a bike or take them fishing. It has been 13 years since my dad died, and 12 since my mom. I still feel it as sharply and painfully as I did so many years ago.

And then she goes on to talk about missing her grandpa who died 10 years ago, and I totally understand, but through all this not once, not ONCE, did she even bother to acknowledge what I may be feeling. I even mentioned that, yeah, I know, I miss my parents and think of them every day. Her reaction? One of surprise, like oh yeah, I suppose you might just miss them a little.

It was all just so hard to listen to.

And I don't want to be that person who nobody can talk to because I'll get all triggered. I'm not, and I am always there for my friends, but this time it was just so....I don't know. Difficult. Perhaps if she had even made one teeny tiny acknowledgment that she understands or empathizes with me, but no. It's all about her, all the time.

Then she went on to tell me about her older brother who she misses, he moved away when she was 6. She told me how they were SO MUCH alike and how it's amazing that they can be so similar, how cool it is to have that biological connection to someone.

No kidding.

I ended the evening by saying, "Yeah, I've never had that in my life, nobody around me is even related to me."

She just kind of changed the subject quick and we said our goodbyes.

GOD WHY IS IT SO HARD. I want to support her, I want to be there for her, but why can't se fucking acknowledge me at all? I sometimes wonder if this friendship is even worth it. I feel like I am doing all the giving and she is doing all the taking. But I can't just walk away from someone, I've had that done to me and it sucks, I can't do that to another human being. Not unless they reslly, really deserved it.

I don't know. So today of course I'm stuck with all the memories of my childhood, of my mom and dad and how much I miss them, and playing the "what if" game - what if they hadn't died, how would they be around my kids, how much would my kids adore them. It's so unfair, and I have nobody to really talk about it to, because nobody I know has lost both their parents (well, all 4 actually) by the time they were 23 years old. Nobody understands, and nobody wants to even try.

It would be nice if my n-mom could grow the fuck up and be a mother, but I've learned long ago not to count on her.

So I'll just turn to the only comfort I have - spending the day listening to sad sappy crap music and disappearing into the bathroom now and then for a fit of crying. I've never felt as alone as I do right now.