the whole {half} truth

Adoption itself is an entity cloaked in secrecy and lies.  Original names and dates and places are blotted out and new identities are issued without hesitation.  Agencies (who should and often do know better) and Adoptive parents who are none-the-wiser to the long-term ramifications are eased into believing that keeping the whole truth secret is best for the child.

Secrecy for the sake of comfort is par for the course more often than not.

Knowing this, I don't know why, then, I am still so surprised and betrayed by my birthmother's lies.  I have come to terms with my adoptive family's discomfort with my own adoption and reunion, and thus have come to understand and forgive them for the secrecy they forced upon the subject.  Coming to terms with my birthmother's lies and secrecy for the sake of her comfort, however, seems impossible.  Ten years of reunion seems to me to be plenty of time to mention two siblings, also placed for adoption after me.  Ten years gave her 88,000 hours to take out a piece of paper and confess, and help me understand her and let me know that there are others in the world who share my blood.  Of every betrayal adoption has inflicted upon me, hers is the most devastating.

I don't know how to respond except with silence.  I wish that cutting her off hurt her as much as it hurts me.  

both sides now

I have been on both sides of the search process.  In 2005 I began my search for my birthmother, and thanks to one super-sleuthing wonderful friend, I found her only months later.  I realize how lucky I am - I know there are people who searched for years with no result;  I know there are those who searched only to find that their loved ones had passed away.  I didn't have to wait for anything.  I didn't have time to dissect my own motives, or to think about what I would say once I found her.  I threw my search out into the black hole of the internet, and expected nothing would come back to me.

Of course, however unexpectedly, it did.  Our reunion was (and is) a whirlwind of emotion, with an abundance of good, bad, and ugly.  But regardless of the ups and downs, the simple truth that I had brought this search on myself, kept me somewhat grounded and level-headed.  I initiated.  I opened the door.  I said, "Yes.  For better or for worse, I want to know you."  I felt more in control - even if it was an illusion.

This year, I received an email from someone asking if there was any chance that I could be his sister.  He gave me details about my own adoption, knew my birth-name, and my birthmother's.  The dates, details and information all made sense...except for the fact that in the ten years since we had been reunited, my birthmother had never mentioned having other children.  In fact, she had made several comments that would imply just the opposite.  The air went out of my lungs.  This time, I hadn't been the one to open the door.  I had been found.

Once I confronted my birthmother with the recently uncovered truth, and she confirmed that not only did I have one - but two - brothers who were both placed for adoption years after me, the difficulty of settling into a new normal began.

This particular side of the search process, still being so new, is difficult to articulate.  Unfortunately, the similarities between the two experiences included a lack of familial support.  Though I searched for my birthmother alone, without telling many (any?) people, once we connected, I confided in a few close friends - and ultimately, my family.  Not a single friendship remains from that time in my life.  Each 'friend' in whom I trusted my innermost fears and insecurities about reunion left shortly after.  One friend - one who I thought was the closest to me at the time - refused to accompany me to the airport to meet my birthmother for the first time.  She "didn't want to be a crutch", when a crutch is exactly what I needed.

Family support in my reunion(s) is certainly lacking.  My adoptive mother once remarked, during my initial reunion with my birthmother, that "This is all too weird for me".  A consequence that should have been considered prior to adopting, perhaps?  My siblings are removed from the process entirely, choosing to ignore the fact that I am adopted.  They don't ask about my birth family.  They don't care to know anything about that side of my life.  When I was recently contacted by my brother, my adoptive siblings' response was one of annoyance.  This was just another interruption in their existence at the fault of my adoption.

Three years ago, their reaction would have sent me spiraling.  Now, I'm numb to the lack of interest.  I have resolved to floating through this reunion fog solo, trying desperately to minimize the damage of my sharp edges.

choose her a name she will answer to

One of the first questions I asked my birth mother when we were reunited in 2005 was whether or not she had given me a name when I was born.  

I never felt that “Joanna” suited me.  I’m sure everyone goes through a period in their childhood where they hate their name.  I think it’s a part of growing up, of finding your identity.  My adoptive parents gave me my name to honor my maternal grandparents, Joseph and Josephine.  My adoptive mother has admitted that she was hoping that I would be a bit of a tom boy - that I would play sports as they both had, and that I would take on the nickname “Jo”.  Quite the opposite.

In middle school (my group of friends will attest to this) I spent a decent amount of time trying on new names.  One week I would ask to be called “Brenda”.  Another week I wanted to be “Monica”.  I tried over and over again to find something that I felt “fit”.  I never succeeded.

When I was told that I had been named “Jade” when I was born, I felt relief.  I felt peace.  I immediately began to internally identify as Jade, while Joanna began to take a backseat.  And there began a brand new phase of identity crisis as it pertained to my adoption.

I thought seriously about changing my name legally for many months, but several things held me back.  First and foremost, I knew it would hurt my adoptive family.  I imagined the conversation that would need to happen and multiple scenarios, and not a single one of them allowed for a pleasant outcome.  My mother would be devastated.  She would see it as a personal insult.  That alone wasn’t worth the risk.  I also knew that the friend I’d had for years, who grew up along with me knowing me as Joanna, would not transition easily.  Many of them wouldn’t understand the need for the change.  Ultimately, there was a general lack of support, and I didn’t feel a desperate enough need to make the change legally anyhow.

So, now Jade is something of an alter-ego.  Jade is an artist in the purest form.  Jade is responsible for my most free-spirited decisions in life.  And while there may not be anyone who calls me by that name, it’s enough for me that she exists within Joanna.

born with the moon in cancer

choose her a name she will answer to

call her green and the winters will not fade her

call her green for the children who've made her

little green, be a gypsy dancer

he went to california

hearing that everything's warmer there

so you write him a letter and say, "her eyes are blue"

he sends you a poem and she's lost to you

little green, he's a non-conformer

child with a child, pretending

weary of lies you are sending home

so you sign all the papers in the family name

you're sad and you're sorry but you're not ashamed

little green, have a happy ending

just a little green

like the color when the spring is born

there'll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow

just a little green

like the nights when the northern lights perform

there'll be icicles and birthday clothes

and sometimes there'll be sorrow

the art of suffering

"If I'm standing beside someone with seventeen stab wounds, my one does not hurt any less."

Suffering is hard.  Especially when you suffer from something that is not widely recognized as being painful.  Suffering in silence is the intricate and elaborate art mastered by the adoptee.

Up until just yesterday, there had been very little communication between myself and my newly discovered half-brother.  But that did not stop me from thinking about him - daily, hourly, etc.  And all the while, I'm suffering.  My adoptive family is absent in their support.  There are only two people I have been able to confide in since my world was turned upside down, and while I love them both for being a willing ear, the looming fear of being "too much to handle" creeps in easily.

"There are people who have it much worse than you."  There are.  And I get it.  But it doesn't diminish my pain by any means.  Knowing that there are those suffering terrible diseases, terrible loses, terrible physical pain, doesn't make me feel better.  It doesn't lessen my suffering.  It doesn't help fill the gaping hole in my spirit.

I feel very much alone in this.  And that's not fishing for pity.  I am alone in many aspects of my life.  I keep to myself.  I keep people out.  And alone seems more and more appealing as those closest to me, those I confide in, seem unable to understand this suffering.

jaded: a brief introduction

After a five year interlude and an incredibly rocky road in reunion, I decided that a fresh start was in order.  Triggered by new discovery, I realized that once upon a time, this was a wonderful venue for finding my place in the wide world of adoption - and for finding an incredible group of supporters-turned-friends.  While I have chosen to remove the blog that chronicled the very beginning of my adoption journey from the "public" and start anew, it remains saved on paper, and will serve, I'm sure, as a reminder of how it all began.

Recently, after ten years of reunion with my birthmother, I received an email from someone claiming to be my half-brother.  A half-brother, which my birthmother neglected to tell me about for ten years.  He found me on his search for Her.  And he found another brother.  So, in one foggy, fucked up Wednesday morning, I went from being an only child to the oldest of three - and all with no help from Her.

I've spent hours upon hours upon hours explaining away every word - every lie - she'd ever spoken to me.  I've defended her, I've persecuted her, I've been furious and I've been heartbroken.  Trying to wrap my mind around a ten year lie - when the truth was is so crucial to joining the two separate lives I live in adoption - has left me with nothing but numbness.  Everything she has ever said to me is brought into question.  What stock can I put in any of the information she has shared with me up until this point?  I've spent days replaying exchanged words, wondering if every word was a piece of a carefully spun web, meant to keep the truth away.

So, almost a week later, I'm emailing a newly discovered sibling with the same ferocious, greedy need for connection that I once felt for Her.  And a week later, I've said nothing to Her.  I thought I knew what complexity was.  My understanding was lacking until now.

I feel betrayed.  A betrayal that eclipses even the most primal fears and hurts of being let go of twenty eight years ago.  I don't know how to overcome such a heavy lie.  My greatest fear is that I can't.