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.
