I’ve been putting off writing this post for a while, for several reasons. The first is that it’s so personal, because I am adopted. And because my adoption has not only affected me, but my families as well. In some ways, I feel guilty for writing this, because perhaps it shows a lack of respect for them. But that is not the case. I do respect them. All of them. I might not get along with all of them, true. I have a cousin who ends up arguing with me every time I see her. Last time we hung out, she told me she wished that I had been a closed adoption- that is, no one would have known about it, least of all me- because maybe my brothers, William especially, would be better off not knowing. I will deal with that issue later. But as much as we anger each other, she is still my cousin, by blood. And nothing can ever change who you are biologically related to. Different families can bring you up and you can love them just as much. But blood is always thicker than water. As much as my cousin and I don’t get along, I love her. Because she is family- and although sometimes I don’t think she believes she is- she always will be.
Family can be messed up, sure. All families fight. No relatives are perfect. The nuclear family is so rare nowadays. I don’t see that as a problem at all. Society is merely changing- just as it always does. But what doesn’t change is that you still love your families. Sure, they have their faults- but whether you realise it or not, you still love them, regardless. I think that applies to all families- whether you all grew up together with your white picket fence, or whether it’s more complicated, like mine.
For that reason, I also think it’s time I stop hating birthmother for that decision she made all those years ago. But again, I will get to that later, because there’s a lot I want to say about that, and I’m trying to cut the rambling here.
This will probably be a huge post, for the second reason I have delayed covering this topic. There is so much I want to say. Even trying to restrict what I am saying, I can promise you that this will be epically long. There are so many related issues surrounding adoption. And I know I can’t begin to cover them in this. But I will still try.
Also, perhaps I ought not to talk about my birthfamily so honestly. Maybe they will be offended. Maybe they won’t like what I know about them. That’s ok, because I understand. I am not perfect. Neither are they. No one is. They’ve had their flaws, and sometimes they haven’t made the best decisions, but things like that cannot be changed. I still love them. Because I can’t have another birthfamily. I mean, I kind of do. There’s my birthdad’s side of the family, who I see separately to my birthmum’s side of the family, because that’s just the way the situation is. I don’t want my birthparents to live happily ever after, to be honest. I don’t really want them to even meet again. It would be a fairytale if they did- and by that, I mean it wouldn’t be realistic. To my knowledge, they weren’t even in a relationship, and I think they were both mature in choosing not to be together for my sake. I don’t think they’ve spoken since before I was born. And I don’t mind. They weren’t supposed to be together or anything like that. And this way, I get to be involved with both sides of my birthfamily. Perhaps if I wasn’t adopted, it would have been harder for me to contact my birthfather, because my birthmother… I don’t know. Knew him once. My adoptive parents never knew him. There weren’t the same emotional consequences for them helping me find him. But the point I was trying to make before about not having another birthfamily is that these are the people I am biologically related to. No one else can replace that link for me. So I better learn to love them, because they are the best I’m going to get.
I think, perhaps, I ought to try to explain why I was adopted. Except I don’t know for sure. Different relatives- from both my birthfamily and my adoptive family- have offered various explanations- often the one that puts them in the best light. I haven’t a clue. Last year, after a traumatic incident I do not wish to discuss at this point, I realised I needed to ask my birthmother. I had never asked her before. I mean, I used to visit her once a year, and I don’t think we had much to say to each other. I mean, we did, we just didn’t have the guts to bring the sensitive topic up. I mean, how would you even begin to ask about that? “Oh hey, just wondering, um, why did you get rid of me instead of bringing me up yourself?” So I called her last year. And even after she explained to me, I still didn’t really know. The gist of it was, after William’s father (we share the same mum, but a different father) didn’t have anything to do with him, she realised that she wanted a father figure for me, but didn’t think my birthfather would want to fulfil that role. (His version is a little different, I’ll get to that later.) Plus she was suffering from what the doctors thought was depression (after my adoption and several children later, she later discovered it was a thyroid condition) and I don’t know. Maybe she was overwhelmed. I saw her once a year, but the more I think about it, I don’t even know my birthmother. Not at all.
My dad’s version of events is different. He’s adopted himself, and so was never keen on the adoption idea. I don’t even think he knew I existed until I found him when I was twelve. I don’t know what the truth is- although I suspect that my birthmother may not have been entirely truthful. That does not matter for now though, because I exist. No matter how I came to be, I exist now.
I’m glad I know my birthfamily, because a lot of adopted kids don’t. A lot of adopted kids don’t even know they’re adopted. But on their 18th birthday, someone has to tell them. Can you imagine that? Everything you thought you’ve known for the past eighteen years had been nothing but a lie. Those people that you thought were your family? Lie. You spend your days searching for people that resemble you. Just in case you may be related. I’m glad I haven’t had to go through that. If no one had ever told me- or the others- just like my cousin hopes, it would not have worked out for the best. The moment I found out, I’d be knocking on their door, demanding an explanation for everything. I’d make a point of trying to ruin their lives in the same way I’d feel that they ruined mine. But that was not the case. I know them. And I am grateful.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive my birthmother for the choice she made. To this day, I still think she got it wrong. But it’s too late for that now. I will probably always be hurt by that. And I don’t want to admit that, because I don’t want to be weak about it. I’m not supposed to be. It’s been a part of my life forever, and nothing will change it. If I can’t be strong about it, and pretend I don’t care, then maybe I’m pathetic. But I’m just coming to terms with the fact that this is what happened, and I have to make the most of it now. I can’t change the past. I can’t change what happened before I was born. I can just live. But I want to live in a way that I don’t have to hate any of my family for the choices made. I won’t hate my birthmother for adopting me out. I won’t hate my cousin for wishing the family had never known me. Maybe they were wrong about me, but I still can’t change the fact that, whether we like it or not- I was born. And we are related. And anything more I have to say about adoption is irrelevant until I accept that.
Some things still hurt. Aforementioned cousin told me that all the grandchildren were given Peter Rabbit money boxes. Or I forget what. But some sentimental token, at any rate. That I didn’t get. It upset me when she told me, and to this day, she still doesn’t understand why. But I didn’t get the token. But I, so desperately at the time, wished I had. Because then I could feel like I was part of their family too. I still don’t feel like I’m part of any family. I’m not part of my birthfamily, because I didn’t grow up with them. I didn’t even meet them all until recently. I’m not part of my adoptive family because, genetically, at least, we have nothing in common. I feel like an outsider in both of my families, and yes. It hurts. And maybe that makes me pathetic. Fine. I. Am. Pathetic. But I still wish they could understand. And this is just my birthmother’s side of the family here. My birthfather’s side is a whole other thing altogether, and I don’t think I could write about them yet.
Heck. I don’t think I’ve said half the things I wanted to say, but I never thought I would in this post, simply due to the nature of it. But I guess I feel a bit better, having written it, and perhaps you shall be enlightened by it.
