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 7th 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.