After Five Years and Fifty Eight Days

Before reunion, I was definitely a lost soul. Growing up, I’d listen to Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” (Hey, I was a child of the 70’s and 80’s, don’t judge) over and over…wondering why my mother and father didn’t think I was good enough to keep.  I mean, my adoptive parents certainly thought I was a burden, so I internalized all that.  If neither set of parents wanted me, shouldn’t that tell me something about how bad of a person I truly was?  I was definitely in a lot of emotional pain as a child.  Because of the emotional and sexual abuse I suffered at the hands of my adoptive mother and father I honestly thought that if I could just disappear, the pain would stop.  Would I characterize that as suicidal?  To a certain extent, yes.  But instead of taking that drastic step, I turned to self-harm practices instead.  I’d find the box cutters my adoptive father kept in his basement workshop.  At night, after my mother stopped screaming at me, I would take the blade, and while I sobbed, cut long lines into my leg.  I remember just staring at the red lines, feeling the whoosh of adrenaline.  It was the only way I could get to sleep some nights, switching the emotional pain for the physical pain.  Wishing for a band aid for the red lines across my heart instead of just across my legs.

As a teenager, I never fit in.  I was the awkward looking girl with the thick plastic framed glasses (because they were the cheapest to buy) and the permed hair that belonged on an elderly woman, not a 13 year old girl.  Puberty was horrible.  I started gaining weight.  And by that I mean, I went from 110 pounds to 130 pounds.  If I were that weight now, I’d be rejoicing and shouting, “Hallelujah!” all over town, but back then, I just felt fat and out of place.   I remember in 7^th grade there was a junior high dance that was coming up…and one of the boys I secretly had a crush on, but who didn’t even notice me, asked if I wanted to go to the dance.  I looked at him warily, was about to say yes and he started laughing and said loudly, “Too bad no one would ask  you!  F*cking four eyes…”.  I think that’s when I stopped speaking to any of my classmates.  I’d only talk in class if the teachers called on me but other than that, I just went through the days in silence.  Alone.  And still I cut.  Adding more red lines to my already raw legs and heart.

I’d actually have to say that things got worse when I got older and did lose the weight and managed to get boys to notice me.  My self loathing didn’t change.  If anything, it got worse.  When I started going out with my first boyfriend (he may read this blog so I’m going to tread lightly here), I was ecstatic.  I’d waited so long for someone to care about me and want to be with me.  Pretty pathetic if you think about it now.  Most girls go through their awkward first loves and first breakups when they are 13, 14 and 15…me, I was 19.  And when things ended between us for the second time, I was heartbroken, but not surprised.  Again, if my own parents thought I was trash, how could I expect anyone to want to stick around me?  I know that I was clingy with him.  I thought that if I was cool enough, he’d want to hang around me 24/7.  He’d want to bring me with him when he hung out with his friends because I was just that awesome.  If I could go back in time and talk to the 19 year old me, I’d tell her to grow the hell up.  You don’t need someone else to make you happy until you can make yourself happy.  Still working on that one, but at least I figured it out.  Better late than ever. 

Life moved on…more loves came into my life..more loves left.  I am most proud of the children I have because of those lost loves.  It wasn’t until I had my daughter at the age of 25 that I was able to see myself in someone else’s eyes…and to feel real love for another human being.  It was the same with my son.  Having the kids also brought up a whole other can of worms though in regards to being adopted.  Looking at their sweet baby faces, feeling their strong grip around my index finger…giving them up to someone else to raise seems unimaginable.   I try not to judge natural mothers too harshly, unless they are complete jerks of course..lol, because no one really knows what goes through someone else’s head to make that kind of decision.  Many of my close online friends are natural mothers and some of the strongest women I know.  But for me personally, that was when I realized that I wanted my story.  I wanted to know why I was given away.

That was back in the day of limited internet capabilities though.  I had no idea of knowing how or where to find my mother.  Gradually, search engines evolved and online forums sprouted up.  I put my name and the information I had out there, but never got even a nibble.  So, I decided that I had to just be as content as possible with my little family and move on.

Most of you know the rest of the story from there.  My natural mother ended up finding me on Myspace on July 11, 2008..five years and fifty eight days ago.

I’m on the other side of the fence now.  And while some days the grass is greener, there are still questions for which I may never find the perfect answer.

Even knowing a lot of my story, I’m still not completely satisfied.  I know that my natural mother was sixteen when she gave birth to me.  I know that most of my mother’s relatives knew about me, as did my brother and sister (after their father told them to “be good otherwise Mommy might give you away like she did to another bad baby”).  I know the joy I felt being told again and again how much I fit in with the rest of the clan.  I know where my freckles came from and my tendency to burn in the sun after ten minutes.  I know where my short stature comes from and I know that my sarcastic sense of humor is nature, definitely not nurture. 

But some days, I still feel like a lost soul.  I have no clue what happened to me between the time my mother left the hospital and I was dropped off at the adoption agency to meet my adoptive parents and sister.  That bothers me.  I have a real problem with the not knowing.  I now have two FBook profiles.  One that hides my true feelings about adoption, for the most part anyway, and one on which I can be completely honest.   It’s only been through talking with other adoptees, both in reunion and not, that I realized that I do fit in somewhere.  Yes, sometimes it’s like we’re all on the Island of Misfit Toys, but it’s also our own close knit family.  Only another adoptee can truly understand what it’s like to feel this complete and yet incomplete at the same time.  I wish none of us had to go through this journey, but at least we’re not alone.