Today marks my 43rd year, and as birthdays go for the adoptee, it's a bitter-sweet day.
I'm not one who likes to celebrate the day my mother agreed to send me away. And yet, I am able to acknowledge my life has meaning and has brought much happiness and comfort to many others. [Therefore I do recognize my life is not a waste; it does have worth.]
Oh what a sordid story this is and could have been. My motives, my wishes, my desires... all that could have transpired. What was I thinking? All I wanted was The Great Escape... freedom from a life that was killing me.
Leave it to God and the cosmic jokesters in the world to let my first solo- trip to London become the re-birthing story.. one that placed me among strangers who wanted to send me away.
Over the years, I have read and heard many-a-story from birth-mothers and adoptees.... stories that would make your bones chill, your stomach lurch, and your faith in humanity all but escape the realm of all possibility.
I thought I heard and saw the worst of the worst..... and then I'm humbled by the news someone else presents me.
I strongly urge others to read the story of how some mothers are treated, how some children are obtained, and how "Adoption" (and it's "good" name) does NOT bring positive images to my long-suffering brain.
Every once in a while, I allow myself to dig deep into the bowels of my brain and retrieve the memories of my childhood that made my life a (secret) living hell. Over and over again, I try to remind myself I was adopted because there are people who wanted to give me a life full of chances and opportunities that I would not have had, had I stayed in-care, where ever that was my first year of life. As nice as that generic reason seems to most people, I know why my adoptive mother needed me. It was not to save me from an orphanage, (although that did make her look l
It's taken me almost 40 years to realize what my life-crisis has always been: I have lost huge pieces of myself to all the adults who have once claimed me. This is hard-core adoption-stuff, mixed with abuses that should no longer matter (but they DO). With claim, comes blame...
Are we born with the natural ability to love and parent?
I'm not so sure. For me, I had to learn how to love my children... but that was easy, because they grew inside me. As I learned each stage of development, I grew a deeper appreciation for what was happening to my own body, and I was better able to prepare myself for each baby entering my life. I also got a better perspective of what my own natural mother endured for the sake of having me. I was humbled by the birthing experience, as I think most women are.
Katie, the oldest of my twins, has been having separation anxiety, in terms of leaving me and going to full-day first-grade. She's six years old, and is realizing the cord has been cut. She's not liking it very much, and it's making her very sad.
Donna was the youngest patient I recall being on 6 West. The Respiratory and Renal unit no longer exists. Funny how things disappear once I leave... Six-West was a nightmare of a floor. I called it The Roach Motel… people checked-in but they didn’t check-out without everything being tagged and put into bags, first. The official nursing specialty of the 36-bed unit was chronic respiratory and renal disorders. Lungs and kidneys. Breathing and urinating. Most patients were dialysis dependent, and very sick. We had four ventilat