the chasm

Two friends of mine - one much closer than the other - are planning to adopt children in the somewhat-near future. This...is awkward for me.

Reason #1: 

Friend "A" approached me as such: "Hey! You're adopted, right? We're going through the  process of adoption..maybe you could like..give us some insight!"

No. I really don't want to.

"Come on.. give us like.. one pearl of wisdom.. What should we know?"

I don't produce pearls. More like soggy, depressed sponges that sit next to the oysters  that produce pearls.

"Please? One thing?"

So, I gave her my second to last copy of Twenty Things Adopted Kids Wish Their Adoptive Parents Knew. A week later, I was given the book back by a friend of a friend of a friend of Friend "A" and asked why I would ever give them something like that to read when they were so eager to receive their "Maybe Baby" as they call it (which in and of itself made me want to barf).

I have a feeling I won't be invited to that baby shower. Nor will I be photographing that newborn session. Nor will I ever be welcome back in that corner of the church building.

Reason #2:

Friend "B", who has known me since middle school, asked me "what I thought about being  adopted". I should have directed her here. My response was probably not as friendly as it  could have been. And I'm sure she wasn't ready for it. 

I told her it was the worst thing that could ever happen to someone. I told her - as if it wasn't difficult enough to be separated from your mother, you are then expected to call another woman by that name, and more often than not, expected never to speak of that first woman again. I told her that I think about it every day and nearly every moment I am left to my own thoughts. I told her I still cry and I still find myself saying "I want to go home", only...I have no idea where that is. I told her it's the most difficult experience I can imagine and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

I don't expect I'll be hearing from her any time soon, either.

Someone teach me how to shut my mouth and smile and nod again. When did I forget how to do that?

Someone tell me this will get easier.

I belong to no one

I took a long break - again. But for a reason apart from simply letting busy life and schedules get in the way.

I'm breaking down.

While struggling to find purpose, voicing what I could manage to a friend, I decided that maybe I was letting my adoption 'crusade' get in the way of finding my purpose. I thought maybe I was being too one-sided in my opinions. I feared that in becoming something of the adoption martyr in the art world, I had lost sight of what I had gained through my adoption experience. I decided to tuck the blog away for a while. I wanted to attempt to re-prioritize. I had great dreams of a peaceful life ahead of me, filled with certainty of purpose. I found neither.

I'm in the middle of a Bible study with a close friend. God bless her, she has had to listen to my every insecurity, my every fear. My broken spirit sits in her living room every week, struggling through the pages of our books, holding back tears because I think she'll grow impatient with my constant whining - my desperation to find a reason for my being.

Last week, in our study of Esther, it was said that the Jewish Queen was battling two sides of herself. The question was asked: what two sides are in you - and what would you call them?

I wrote - hesitantly - Jade and Joanna. I was sure of my answer, but hesitated only because I knew it would raise questions; questions which I have begun to fear are asked out of politeness, rather than a genuine curiosity or desire to know me more deeply. This fear has been born out of the sheer number of hours I have clocked weeping on her couch, on her shoulder. Whether this is the case or not, I know I would be tired of me, too.

Joanna is a steel skeleton smile, a concrete fortress with an alligator infested moat. She is  a thick, tall wall, impregnable and completely defended against the outside world. And she  is covered, just so, with a layer of flesh just thick enough to make others believe they know  her - she is human.

Jade is a mass of raw nerves and nothing else. She might stare at those around her and  think to herself that she would like to let them near, but she is perpetually alone of her  own choice. Alone is painful, but it is safe.

In this quest to find meaning and purpose in my life and in what has been my story thus far, I've only come up with more questions than answers. I set out to realize that God has some reason behind my existence. If He does, I don't know what it is.

One thing I've struggled with my entire life - and I do mean my entire life, without exaggeration - is the fact that my mother was so young when I was conceived. At fifteen years old, I don't think anyone would have given a second thought to it if she had decided to terminate her pregnancy. She was a child herself, and the risks to her health were great. It would have been so easy. No one would have asked any questions. But she didn't; and now I'm here, some twenty four years later. And I don't know why.

I have to believe there is a reason. But I don't know what it is.

From my perspective - and maybe it will be hard to hear for some of you - I think it would have been easier to never have existed at all. Certainly less painful. I used to get angry with God for letting me suffer as I have. I live on the verge of tears with a deep ache in my heart that escapes in groans over the slightest thought of my origins. I feel cheated, robbed of normalcy. And almost daily, I struggle with the desire to give up.

Not writing hasn't helped at all. It hasn't helped me to forget that I'm different. It hasn't deterred my thoughts - not even slightly. So what is the purpose? Why is every task a momentous one to be overcome? Is there some great prize at the end of so much pain? Some sort of reward for enduring? Or are the cosmos mocking me for thinking I am significant?

Adoptees and Hope

William F Lynch, a Roman Catholic priest calls hope

the fundamental knowledge and feeling that there is a way out of difficulty, that things can work out, that we as human persons can somehow handle and manage internal and external reality, that there are solutions in the most ordinary and biological and physiological sense of that word, that, above all, there are ways out of illness.

His view of reality is that it is not ultimately conflictual. He believes that

being immersed in reality, belonging to it, provides the foundation for the beginning of hopefulness for all human beings, despite what may be the very difficult circumstances of relinquishment and adoption.

It is said that we are to find hope in our ‘future stories’, in our possible futures with our questions answered, and ideally, with our reunion needs met. We are to find and cling to the hope that some day, we will receive that letter from our birthmothers, that we will have that teary reunion in the airport, that we will no longer need the fantasy birth parents that we spent a lifetime creating.

But what happens when we do receive that letter? What happens when we do have that teary reunion, and we get to know the men and women who gave us away? And what happens when everything you expected to happen doesn’t? How, then, do we deal with the insatiable longing that still lurks in us?

It must be a common occurrence that upon meeting for the first time, or even over periods of time, we realize that what we dreamed our birth families to be can never exist. In fact, it must be an unavoidable truth. The fantasy we create in our minds cannot exist outside of our minds. Our mothers are not Queens, our fathers are not Kings. They are not flawless. They are humans. They are like us.

So how do we deal with reality? And how, when there is an unrequited interest in reunion, do we achieve a maintained sense of hope? How do we keep from falling into a pit of hopelessness when it would be so easy to focus on everything that did not happen according to plan in your reunion?

Moreover, what happens when your questions are answered by our birth families.. and we still cannot come to terms with the reality of our existence?

It seems there are still more questions than answers. And it seems there is little else to do but to continue to hope that they will be answered - if not by our birth families, then by ourselves in our journeys.

I am ONE

ONE: Describe my origins. 

EMH: Oh, it's a long story. 

ONE: I wish to hear it. 

EMH: Another time. 

ONE: I wish to hear the story. Now. 

EMH: In a nutshell, there was a transporter malfunction. My emitter fused  with several of Seven of Nine's nano probes. 

ONE: I was an accident. 

EMH: Call it a random convergence of technologies. 

ONE: Am I unwelcome here? 

EMH: On the contrary. Our primary mission is to explore new forms of life.  You may have been unexpected but given time, I am sure you'll make a  fine addition to the crew.

I was an accident.  Obviously, I was not a convergence of technologies, but I certainly was an accident. No two fourteen year olds get together with the intention of having a child. And yet, two did. I’ve struggled with this concept all of my life. I know that I was never intended to exist. But I do now. For whatever reason, my birth mother chose not to end my life. So there must be a purpose for it.. right? At fifteen years old, it would not have been exceptional to have chosen abortion as a viable solution to an unwanted pregnancy. But abortion was not chosen. And now here I am. But for what? I still have no answer. Sometimes I wonder if abortion would have been the better choice.. the “righter” choice. At least then I wouldn’t be playing tug of war with my own purpose for existing.

JANEWAY: Well, we can delay telling him for now, but keep in mind the  drone is becoming an individual. Seven, he has the right to know. Sooner  or later, we'll have to answer his questions.

And here was the moment of clarity I wish my adoptive mother would have had. I wish she could have had this conversation with Captain Janeway and realized that I had the right to know even the minuscule amount of information that was known. Knowing was a vital part of becoming an individual. And I have been delayed in doing so because of not knowing.

ONE: No. I should not exist. I was an accident. A random convergence of  technologies. 
SEVEN: You are unique. 
ONE: I was never meant to be.

Again, here is my (seemingly) lifelong struggle. I suppose I am only at my quarter-life now, but thus far, I have battled this in myself nearly every day. I was an accident. I was never meant to be. And when I watched this scene, I couldn’t help my tears. And they kept flowing, because I realized I was weeping out of jealousy. “One” was allowed to end his battle. He died heroically saving the ship and its crew. Lucky bastard. I just wait. And wait. And wait. And maybe one day I will find my purpose.

oh, to be someone's own child

I was nine years old the first time I tried to kill myself, the first time I acted on the desperate need to not be.  I had seen Romeo and Juliet on television recently, and the notion of poison - something that would just let you go to sleep and never wake up - was appealing.  I never wanted to hurt myself.  I never wanted to be in pain.  Pain was never the release.  I’d had quite enough of that.  It was just a deep longing to not have to feel anything.  My innocent understanding was certainly lacking, however, and instead of drinking anything lethal, I drank 2.5 oz of perfume.  I threw up all night and could offer little explanation to my parents as to why I had done it.  Even then I understood that the truth would have hurt them. I was nine, going on ten years old. What could possibly be so painful at ten years old? What could hurt so much that after only a decade of living, you wanted it to be over already? Moreover, what ten year old even knows that suicide exists?

I’m sure a lot of adoptees know.

Among adolescents who have attempted suicide, an alarming number of them were adopted. According to a study conducted by Gail Slap, MD, Elizabeth Goodman, MD, and Bin Huang, MS, adoptees were found to be 7.6% more likely to have attempted suicide. (Official Journal of the American Academy of Pediatrics)I had coffee with a good friend of mine last night; one who I have known since eighth grade. She was recalling a church service she recently attended where a movie was shown about orphaned children in various third world countries. She was moved by the film, and says she felt God putting something in her heart that day. When I inquired further, she said, “I just all of a sudden felt this overwhelming push. I think I might want to consider adoption in the future.”

I waited, letting her continue her story, as she was speaking quite passionately about it. My immediate, albeit, silent reaction was to vomit up all the reasons to be cautious...to be as passionate about caring for an adopted child (which is significantly different than caring for biological children from an emotional standpoint). And then those dreadful, sharp, soul-shattering words passed through her lips: “But then I think..I really want children of my own..”

Children of my own. My own children. My own.

And I am, what? We are, what? Not. Very plainly, we are not. We are not our parent’s “own”. Not even remotely.I can recall another friend of mine, who I met in college. Many of my thesis pieces and bodies of work were adoption-related, and being close to me, she was very well versed in “adoption-speak” and very aware of how adoption has affected me.

She and I were sitting in a pub we frequented between classes, and I had just put away my sketches for a body of work I was presenting to a professor. She perked up in her seat, and her eyes got wide, and she asked if she had ever mentioned her cousin. I did not think so. She recalled to me that her cousin had held a birthday party recently. At the party, one member of the family had invited a guest. As they were being introduced to the family, this cousin said, “This is my wife.. and this is my son. And this is my adopted daughter, *****.” My friend asked me if she was hanging out with me too much, or if this was legitimately offensive. My reply was far from calm.She added, “Well, she didn’t seem to mind. She never does.”

Yes, she does. My heart broke for that poor girl, who had always, and would always be introduced as second-rate. This is not my daughter. This is my adopted daughter. And I wondered how many times she’d thought of ending her young life.

There is something both insignificant and monumental that happens in our words. It’s a strange duality between the nonchalant and the overt. Adoptees hear it every day. It’s that dreaded phrase: “my own children”. It’s always said in passing. It’s rarely meant to cause the damage that it does. And more often than not, the speaker does not realize what they’ve said and what they’ve done...though experience has taught me not to underestimate the intentionally cruel.

Oh, to be someone’s own child. I don’t think there is anything in this world I wouldn’t give to be ignorant of the power of that phrase.