My Story part 1- "The Desert"

My story begins in the desert.

Though I was raised in the hustle and bustle of the most intricate of concrete jungles, New York City, my life did not begin there. I was born in a state of cacti and cracking earth, of smoldering sun and soft, Mexican winds. My birthfather, a broad, blonde man of German and Scottish descent in his 20’s, met my birthmother, a Mexican of the same age, in a bar. She was elusive, beautiful, with light skin and dark auburn hair. They were in love, a true Tristan and Isolde story, or perhaps a Romeo and Juliet. They remained together despite their families' protestations. My birthfathers family was weathy, newcomers to this country, proud of their anglo saxon heritage. My birthmothers family, too, were newcomers . Two foregin familys, one from across the Atlantic and the other from across the border, unwillingly joined as one when the news of my existence came to light in the early months of spring,

The details of my conception are rather ambiguous, one half of the equation will claim it was a welcomed accident, the other felt tricked. My birthmother, who had already given birth to 2 children, one who was kept and the other who was placed for adoption, was thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother again. She told her family immediately. My birthfather, who had never had children before, told only his father, and a pact was made to keep the information from the rest of his family, particularly his mother.

My birthfather insisted on abortion, and when my birthmother refused, adoption. She resisted, but finally agreed to meeting a few couples. They found my parents in a newspaper ad, and a meeting was scheduled 4 months before I was born. They clicked immediately, and the adoption was organized through private lawyers. I have been told that my birthmother did not really plan to go through with the adoption. That she was expecting her boyfriend, my birthfather, to change his mind once he saw me. When she found out that I was a girl, she was disappointed, convinced that the likelihood of him wanting me was less because I was not the coveted male child. Although she continued to correspond with my adoptive parents, in her heart she didn’t want to let me go.

"Do not give up this baby" her mother, my maternal grandmother, had told her. " You do not want to do this, I promise. You need this baby. This baby needs you. Do not give up this baby."


The day I was born, she changed her mind and decided to keep me. My parents, who had flown down at the drop of a hat the moment they heard I was on my way, were devastated, and flew back to NYC empty handed.
My birthfather was furious. He attempted to convince my birthmother to give me up - she refused. His family finally caught wind of my existence, and were upset by the news.. Irate, he broke up with her, and my birthmother took me home alone. 


Months and months later, my birthfathers brother called her and tried to convince her to give me up for adoption, that it would be the right thing to do. He talked about money, about being a single mother, about doing the right thing by his niece, who deserved more. Finally, she relented, and my birth uncle came and took me to his house, and called New York City to see if the couple was still interested in adopting me. They were.

I stayed at my birth uncles house for about a week, surrounded by my cousins and the other members of my paternal family. My birth uncles wife took care of me, as she did her own small children. When the time came for my parents to pick me up, my birthmother came to see me for the last time. My birthfather was not present. My entire birth family was there, in that little house, waiting for my parents to come and get me. They finally arrived, and with the lawyers present, the final papers were signed.

My birthfather, who agreed to begin dating again after I was placed, promised to take my birthmother on a vacation in an attempt to make her forget. My birthfather’s family, furious at having been kept in the dark about the pregnancy, were both bereaved about the adoption and relieved to have it all be over. My birthfathers family tried, in vain, to comfort my birthmother who sat despondent on the couch, the pen from signing still in her hand. This is what my birthfather has told me.

My birthmothers story of this day is different. She does not remember the lawers, the papers, or the rest of the family being present. She remembers only the look in my adoptive mothers eyes as she held me for the first time, the emptiness in her arms when she handed me over, the murmers of approval from my birthfathers family. She remembred the letter she had written me a day or so before, promising that she would always love me, apologizing, begging for me not to hate her.

" No one will ever love you as much as I," the letter begins, and she goes on to instruct me to be a good girl for my new mother, to remember her when listening to certain music, to come and find her when I grow up. She even writes me a poem. "New Life" it is called.

 

".... but soon little one, my heart will open wide, as the magic of your new life is unfurled. Go ahead, little one, I'll wait here to cheer you on."

This letter, along with a blanket and a stuffed cat, were all she gave to me. She remembers placing them in the diaper bag that my parents brought, and asking that they be given to me when I was a little older. But the memory that remains engrained in her mind is not a memory at all, but a sound. She tells me that she will never forget the sound of my adoptive parents car as they pulled out of the driveway. The silence that remained in the room when I left.

Some things too late- adoption denial.

Adoption denial. What does it feel like? A fellow blogger, Suz, (who everyone should check out ASAP if they haven't already) posed this question on her own blog, http://writingmywrongs.com/ .

This question intrigued me to the point where I had to spend a few days thinking about how to respond. As an adoptee who actively works hard everyday attempting to convince myself that adoption doesn't matter- how do I do it? How do I look into the eyes of my birthsisters and say they do not matter? How can I think of my birthmother and think "she is no one to me anymore?" How do I speak to my birthfather once every two weeks and think, " this man is merely a nice acquaintance with whom I share DNA. A friend. Not a father." Is this so called denial easy for me, does it come as naturally as breathing? Or is it something I have to practice- a mantra that must be repeated, memorized, absorbed.

Perhaps another question could be, "how can I not?"

Sometimes the knowledge of my adoption and the experience of my subsequent reunion is so overwhelming, so deeply engrained in my personhood, that the only thing I can do to purge myself of those feelings is to negate them. To negate myself, even.

"I am one of billions of people. 100 years from now I will be gone, all trace of my personhood returned to the earth. No one will remember my story, the situation in which I was born will no longer be relevant. I have been displaced yes, but also placed. I belong to the clan with which I reside. The past does not matter, even I do not matter."

For my birthmother, I am one of over half a dozen children. All but two have not remained with the biological family. By convincing myself that I am not alone, I have also convinced myself that I am not important. To my biological family, particularly maternally, I am simply one of many. One of many failed parenthoods.

"I do not belong with them, I never belonged.They have proven this to me. "

My biological family, as an entity, chose to expel me from their family. And somehow, I think this essential fact is somehow forgotten, misplaced, brushed aside. But it has not been lost to me. The family to whom I was born pick and chose children- raising some, placing others. But that's not my business. I have no right to question, no right to pick over their decision, no right to make them feel guilty for their choice. But on that some level, I am somehow expected to accept them without hesitation, to love them, to connect with them, to regard them as my family. Why?

"She is not my mother, she is not my mother. He is nice but not my father. That girl is not my sister." I repeat this over and over. I have myself nearly convinced. Some people are astounded at my callous, others applaud me and commend me for not allowing those archaic notions of biology to control my own definition of family.

There are a few members of my birthfamily whom I love. Most significantly, my older sister, Pippi, whom I only reunited with within the year. She is the first one I connected with, the first one whom I can really say I love. She too was placed for adoption- and so we are two women: the cast out, the two biosisters reunited on the outside. But even we know that we are not sisters. And how could we be? We tried the word out once or twice.

"This is my sister, Amanda." or "This is my sister, Pippi." But the words tasted funny, unfamiliar. We dropped the title almost immediately. I care for her, deeply even. But who is she? I have yet to find the correct definition. Perhaps we cannot be defined. I do know, however, with certainty what we are not.

I deny because it is the only truth in my adoption that I can find. The only piece of my personhood that I dare claim.

"She is not my mother, he is not my father, she is not my sister. She is my birthmother's mother, not my grandmother. He is my birthfathers brother, not my uncle."

Selfishly, I ask "why should I acknowledge those who do not acknowledge me?" But truthfully, I ask "Why should I pine for something that cannot be found in it's entirety again?" My reunion is not a look into the past, but a glimpse into something unattainable- into the family that could have been, that might have been, that almost was, but simply isn't.

Pensieri.

The first night I met my birthfamily, it snowed.

We had the visit planned for months. We decided that they would come over Christmas break. A huge snowstorm had hit New York City only a few days before they arrived. Driving from JFK to our house, they got lost in the frosted concrete jungle, and my father had to take the old Volvo out to get them and bring them home.

My room had never been so clean. I scrubbed the white and blue marble floors, rearranged all of my stuffed animals on my bed, folded my clothes, and even cleaned the dust out from the creases in the blinds. I waited in my bedroom, and stared out the window, feeling the cold glass against my nose and cheeks. When they opened the door, my dad came in first.  Julia my birthsister, and then finally, Paul, my birthfather. I stared, frozen to the floor like the ice that clung to our windows.

I remember rushing up stairs to play with the dog and Julia in my room. I remember hearing my parents and Paul go into the living room to talk.


And that's it. I have a few pictures from that visit. Julia wears a red shirt, and smells like vanilla and sugar. I have my long blond hair straightened, I am wearing a knit white sweater and dark jeans. My dog is young, puppy-like. The Christmas tree is still up, adorned with the white lights and antique ornaments.


But other than these few photos and scattered memories, the visit is lost to me. Sometimes, Paul or one of my parents will bring it up, and they will recount moments that I have no memory of.

My mother tells me that I cried for weeks afterwards. I don't remember this. I don't remember any of it. I can't recall how long they stayed, what we did, or what we said.

These memories are buried deep in my subconscious- lost to me forever. It is amazing what our brains will do for us to relieve our pain, to alleviate our stresses, to dress our wounds.

My reunion has not been easy. In fact, it has been the hardest thing I've ever done. This journey, this path to the truth, to my self-entirety, has been long. And it all started on that snowy day when the icicles hung thick from every window pane. When the snow was so deep we could hardly walk, when the air was clear and my mind unburdened. What would I give to return to that moment, anxiously cleaning every crevice of my bedroom, looking out my window, waiting. What I would give to think like I did back then. I ask myself, now, years later if I would have gone through with it. When my father drove to pick them up, to guide them to the sister and daughter they had relinquished long ago, would I have let him had I known that I'd never be the same? I want to return to that moment--with my hand on the doorknob, ready to let the family that left me back into my life. With what I know now-would I have opened the door?

Palombella Rossa

I have a hard time correlating the words “loved” and “wanted.” My birthparents were not children when I was born. already had cousins. I was not the first child to be born, and I certainly was not the last. My birthparents gave me up, my birthgrandparents and aunts and uncles all watched. Many of them were there when I left. I was loved, perhaps, but not enough. I was wanted, maybe, but not enough.

A few months ago, my Italian friend Giorgia gave birth to her daughter. She is 23, and was unmarried when the baby was conceived. She got married a few months ago at her families urging. Her daughter,Cinzia, is beautiful. I received photos today. She is younger than my birthparents were at my birth, she is less financially stable. I saw that baby today, with her pretty red hair and her family all around her, and I thought to myself, “not me.” I saw Giorgia, and her daughter, and her new husband (also a friend) and her family, and I thought “Why is it okay for them? Why did my family not try like that for me?

Babies who are wanted and loved by their families in their entirety are not given away. My sister was born a mere few years after me, under the same circumstances. She was kept. She is a loved and treasured member of their family, the favorite grandchild, beloved by all.

I accept my adoption. I cannot change it. I am a happy ,well adjusted, member of society. I love my adoptive family. I fit in perfectly. I am the favorite grandchild, the beloved daughter, the loving sister, the “fun” aunt. But there is a part of me, a deep and angry part, that is enraged and hurt at the thought of being cast away. I will never be a part of their family, I will never be accepted back. Not really. I never was meant to be.

I was my birthfathers first child, his parents second granddaughter. They looked at me, the newest, most fragile, and most vulnerable member of their family- and they pushed me away. I live everyday with the knowledge of my original inadequacy, the deep sadness of knowing that all those who were supposed to love me, protect me , cherish me, and never leave me- did exactly that. To this day, even after meeting my birthfamily and understanding the motivations for my placement- I remain astounded at this betrayal. It cannot be contained.

Near the end but closer to the beginning.

I heard my sister's voice the other day.

There was something achingly familiar in the cadences of her speech, the tone of her voice. I recognized her- though I know that's impossible. Something about her reminds me of someone I've heard many times.


I got her letter and I read it 100 times. Though the social worker who had censored our letter had crossed out a lot of identifying information , there was just enough for me to find her myspace, and then, her facebook.

I felt something with her that I've never felt with my other siblings. Perhaps we are more alike, or maybe it's that we come from similar places, similar families. I couldn't tell you what it is.

She and I have spoken every day since. A part of me is sad to have found her. It makes me sad to hear the voice, to see the photos, of someone else who shares my past. Another part of me is overjoyed- happy because I feel that I can incorporate her into my future.

She and I are different. We grew up in different places, with different families & cultures. We've never been together at Christmas, Thanksgiving, or Easter. Until recently, we didn't even know about each other. I live in the East coast- she the West. We have different color eyes & hair. We have grown up without one another.

I am cautious. I know how badly these things can turn out. I know that blood does not ensure love, does not promise trust, or friendship.

But when I hear her voice, when we talk and laugh and joke- I recognize something in her. A glimmer, a sparkle- a reassurance that this was meant to be. We are different- but there is something vital, primal even- that connects us. I see a thread of myself in her.


The two of us have seen many things, felt many sensations, and traveled very far. We come from the same place. My greatest hope, my sincerest wish, is that we can continue on together.

Briciole.

This time next week I will have finally had contact with my sister. It’s official. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that I’ll have read her letter by EARLY next week.

I got the call yesterday, while I was in the movie theatre seeing “Funny People” (which was actually more sad than funny.. I don’t recommend it.) I walked out of the theatre, and checked my cell phone that had been turned off during the movie. And, lo and behold, I had missed a call from the Catholic Charities. I could have kicked myself. I didn’t , of course, but I did use a bit of profanity when I realized that the office was closed for the weekend and that I couldn’t call back. I immediately chcked my voicemail:

“ Hello Amanda? This is SusieQ from the Catholic Charity- I want you to know that I received a letter from your sister, and forwarded it to you this morning. It should arrive early next week.”

I literally almost cried. It’s still only the “anonymous letters” that the charity is forcing upon us until we iron out all the legal kinks to obtain “direct contact”- but I don’t care! I don’t care if the charity opened the letter meant for me, edited out all identifying information, and then stuck it back into an envelope and sent it to NY. I don’t care if it looks ridiculous after being edited by the charity, just like the letter I sent to my sister surely does.

“Hi sister! My name is Amanda____. I live in ___. I go to ___ university. I am ___ years old. I grew up in ___, which is a borough of ___.”

I don’t care if all the identifying information my sister has shared with me in that letter is crossed out, or whited out, or CUT out for that matter. I don’t care what it looks like! I’m not interested, really, in where she lives, what she has, what her surname is, or what kind of education she’s received ( though I already know that she went to college and has at least a bachelors.) Of course I want to know everything- but these things that I know will have been edited out are not really what I’m looking for.

I want to know what she loves, who she loves, and what her passions are. I want to know what she knows , how she feels, and what she wants out of life. Is she married? She could be! Does she have children? What languages does she speak, what was her favorite subject in school?

I hope that this letter that is already on it’s way is only the beginning. It’s merely an introduction, a greeting, a shaking of hands. Nice to meet you, it may say, and who knows where we go from there?

The title of this post is “briciole”. It is the Italian word for “crumbs,” or “fragments.” That is what this letter will be. Bits and pieces of information, the small, seemingly insignificant fragments of her life that she has chosen to share with me. Tiny windows which I can look through- just to get a peek of what I’ve longed for for months.

You take the pieces and you put them together. Slowly slowly, bit by bit, we reconstruct the fragments of our lives. The briciole of our pasts that, once entwining, will hopefully meet once more.

Fading out under the rain.

I’ve been having bad dreams lately. Dreams where I am more gutsy- more resilient- than I am in real life. Many of them, if not most of them, involve my sister, “E”. Even typing the word “sister” in reference to her makes me feel disgusting, as if admitting it out loud, or even via computer, is shameful.

Her inability to accept me shakes me to my core. Why? Why do I care? Some days I don’t, and other days it all comes tumbling down like a pile of bricks. I see her as an embodiment of all my fears- the physical manifestation of the rejection I've felt forever even though it has no logic.

Rejection, in any shape or form, from my biological family just hurts me more than I can ever say. It is my biggest fear, it is my most powerful phobia. Logically, I know that the initial rejection, my adoption, had nothing to do with me.

Why doesn’t that make me feel better..?

I have gotten better with my rage. I no longer hate her passionately, I no longer feel ill with anger just at the thought of her. I never knew that I could feel such emotions. I never knew that I could be so awful. It scared me, I think, to feel such anger at someone whom I was supposed to love.

I’ve never let myself feel these emotions. I buried them for years. I know why I was placed for adoption. I know my birth family. I know why my birth sister doesn’t want to know me , I know that it has very little or nothing to do with me as a person. I know all about it. I know everything. But knowing doesn’t help me.

Somewhere, deep inside, their rejection stings. It doesn’t matter that it had nothing to do with me when I was a child, that it isn‘t really about me now. Nothing will make it go away. Why? I have no idea.

In my dreams, I am angry. I confront my sister, I shove her a little bit. I demand to know what her problem is. I demand that she get over it. I tell her every nasty, hurtful thing that I’ve ever thought in my mind. In my dream- there is no regret, there are no consequences for my actions. In my dream I don’t wonder what I did wrong, where things went sour. I am powerful, I am resilient, I am strong- outraged at this betrayal. In my dream I am pure rage- never tiring from fighting a battle I never had a chance at winning.

Then I wake up, and all candor and belligerence float away. I am no longer gutsy, enduring, or potent. I am the hurt child- the child who is sure that if I blink, if I do one thing wrong, they will disappear again. I am the sister who hurts, who is angry and insulted, and who would never have the audacity to be mean. I am the sister who waits quietly for acceptance, knowing it may never come. I am the sister who is not sure if I will ever be able to love her again, trust her again. I’m the sister who wakes up and wants to go back and dream again- to escape to a place where we have no regrets.

la corsa..

I'm drinking the worst peach iced tea that I've ever tasted in my life. It's some sort of generic brand of "Crystal Light" but dear Lord...it's absolutely horrible.

I should be doing a lot of things right now. I should be reading " Il Gattopardo," or perhaps getting through my endlessly long Italian grammar book that I promised myself I would finish before term starts in August. I should give my dog a bath, I should do some dusting around the house, and I certainly should be studying. Should I say studying once more?


Instead, I'm here. I am waiting for news to come via mail, or via phone. I've been waiting for so long, and the wait never seems to get any shorter. It's just one setback after another. I hardly expect to hear any news. Everyday I do my thing, and while it's always in the back of my mind, I don't get my hopes up anymore.

Sometimes I feel like, as a woman who was adopted, I can never fully "grow up." When in search of information about myself that others take completely for granted,I am treated almost as a common criminal. Proof of identity, therapy sessions to gauge my readiness, months and months of waiting for this bureaucratic nightmare to end. Both adult parties are willing and ready to meet- why am I constantly being infantilized?


I know that this isn't true. Confidentiality issues and waiting are a part of the world. I'm just tired of having to constantly prove myself in an attempt to know myself. I'm not a child. I'm not stupid. I deserve (dare I say it?) to know the truth , the whole truth and nothing but the truth- about myself..


These things all go through my mind until reality seeps in and I realize that this is how the government works, and that these blockades are put into force in an attempt to reduce problems later on. I know this. I accept it and have no real problem playing by the rules. The wait is just torture. It's long. but I have hope that it won't be fruitless.


In other news- I'm happy with my life as it is. I'm dieing for classes to start, excited about the potential of getting some color this summer, and generally happy with my relationships, familial and otherwise.


There's only one thing missing...and hopefully it will come soon enough.

WOOP!

I have experienced a miracle. I got the call a few days ago, telling me that J wanted to not only tal kthrough letters and phone calls, but that she wanted to MEET ME. IN PERSON. My J wants to meet me. I cannot believe it. I am on cloud nine. Dare I hope for the best?
Things had been stagnant for WEEKS. ALl of a sudden, as if by magic, I got the best news I could hope for. Now, all J and I need to do is get a 1 hour therapy session to prove that we are emotionally ready to know eachother, and then we will finally be given eachother's contact information!

Tomorrow I am going to go to my appointment, and then promptly afterwards I will be attending mass at 5:00 at St. Patricks in Manhattan. God has heard my prayers. For me there is no more explanation than that.

I can hardly believe that after all these months of waiting this will finally happen for me. I hope that this will finally be the peace I've been waiting for. I hope that I can be the person that J needs, that she has longed for.

Tomorrow I will go to Mass, and I will say a silent thankyou for all the things, past and present, that have brought me to this moment, and all that will follow.

Adesso che sei dovunque sei

I've been waiting what seems like a lifetime. Sometimes the entire institution makes me want to pull my hair out! I sent "J" the letter a few months back, along with all of my identifying information. I did all the work that needed to be done and so the wait begun! Now of course, months later, I'm finally starting to get fed up.

I want to meet her- she want's to meet me? I'm a little confused by what she wants at this point- as I must admit the secrecy surrounding this whole deal is making me nutty. We're both consenting adults... and I wish this was easier and faster. That's the bottom line, I guess. Just faster.

I'm stalking the mailman and constantly manning my cellphone and house phone. I doubt she'll contact me by email but I even check THAT constantly....

Come on time..let's go a little faster..

The dam becomes a river..

I cannot imagine what it is like to not be adopted. Living and being a part of a biological family is something I will never know.

I cannot imagine not growing up in New York, not speaking Italian, not loving opera and having the family I have. I can’t imagine having different parents, different friends, a different accent, or different experiences. I can’t imagine living a life different from the one I am.

The reality that I almost did is astonishing and disturbing to me.

I do not like being adopted. This makes me unpopular. I know that being adopted changed everything. I know that the outcome would have been very different had I remained with my biological family. Of course, I can only speculate- but I am almost positive that I am better off where I am. Everyone tells me this. I believe it. I know it.

Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?

I want to grow out of these feelings. My whole life, I assumed that adoption would become less and less important to me as I grew older. As a child it was important because I was curious. I thought that by the time I hit this age I would have already worked through all of my feelings.

The thing about adoption is that you never get over it. I tried having contact with my biological family, and I tried not having contact. I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried journaling, crying, rejoicing, praying, and I’ve tried pretending it doesn’t exist. Nothing I do is giving me that magic sense of peace. Sometimes I feel happy- I feel blessed because of my wonderful family, and blessed that my birthparents had the sense not to attempt to raise me. Other days I feel this loss- this ambiguous feeling of sadness. I don’t so much grieve my biological family- because logically I know that being separated from them was the best thing that has ever happened to me.

That is what makes me sad. How can I even say that? I am ashamed. I care very deeply for my birthfather- how can I say that I am better off without him? I am embarrassed even as I type the words. The knowledge that the worst thing that has ever happened to me was simultaneously the best is absolutely the most mind-fucking emotion there is.

I try to escape my pain with rationalization. I have an amazing life. I really, really do. 6 out of 7 days a week-adoption does not cross my mind. I am out and about- living my life and loving my family and friends and traveling and taking my dog for walks. I will do almost anything to escape my loss.

I will rationalize and rationalize until I arrive at moments like this when my emotions overpower my intellect.

I feel stupid for feeling this way. I feel unappreciative and neglectful. I feel like being sad over this makes me less of a person- less deserving of respect. I feel like I need to just shut up and be grateful and love what I have. I feel like I am grieving nothing.

My life is amazing. I love my family. I love my city , my dog, my house, my friends, my bed my school my everything. Why isn’t that enough for me?


The realization that this loss I feel will never go away is only beginning to dawn on me. With all this joy in my life- who am I to not be joyful?

I'm tired of this song and dance.

I’ve been searching for a solution- groping in the dark for some sort of resolution in all this bullshit. Even after I “gave up” officially- the fight never stopped in my own mind- in my own life. I never stopped caring or longing or wishing or regretting. I’ve never stopped bouncing the ideas around in my mind- what could I have done? What should I have done? What did I do to make this all go awry?

I am just sad now. Sad and angry. I couldn’t tell you what the percentages of those emotions would be. Perhaps…80% despondent and 20% irate? Who knows? I certainly couldn’t put a number on it- but God knows I’d like to.

I want to pack adoption up neatly. I want it to be some event in my past. I no longer want to “be adopted”- I want to “have been adopted.” I don’t want it to define me anymore, in any sense of the word. Not that it ever has, of course. Not for other people. My parents do not see me as their adopted daughter. My friends do not see me as their adopted friend. I am not an adopted sister to my brother, not really. Though technically, I’ll always have that label, it does not define who I am to anyone else but myself. My grandparents do not see me and say “ ah yes, Amanda. Our adopted granddaughter.” Only I place this label onto myself. I’m the one who can’t shake it.

I hate the feelings I’ve developed for the people who brought me into this world. They make me feel so skeevy. I hate being angry, and I hate hating. I will never love my sister. Not ever. I can’t…imagine it. I can’t fathom looking into her eyes and liking what I see. She does not care for me. She has rejected me- and that’s not something I can just shake off. I don’t care if she’s troubled/has had a bad life/is sad/is angry. I don’t care that she rejected me because she has learned to reject other people before they can reject her. I don’t care what the reason is. This is my goddamn blog, and although no one reads it (thank god!) I promised that I’d be nothing but honest about my own inner workings while writing. And even though I know saying this pretty much buys me a one-way ticket to hell- I despise that girl. More than I’ve ever despised anyone- and I’ve met some pretty crummy people. This hatred, this intense dislike that is brewing in my brain, does no one any good. It doesn’t make me feel any better. It only embarrasses me- I am ashamed that the Amanda who felt empathy has left- never to return. I am ashamed because I wanted it so desperately- and my weakness has been taken advantage of by someone who can smell it from a mile away. I am sad because I want to love her. So badly. I am ashamed because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to agan.

And so I’m left grappling. What do I do? I stopped contacting them for a reason- and I never want to forget that. I didn’t one day decide to remove them from my life on a whim. I didn’t make that decision in a hurry. I thought about it, agonized about it even, and when the time came to make that phone call I thought I my heart would fall out of my chest. I’ve never had a “cry” feel that good. To hang up the phone- and realize that I had made a decision for myself- was absolutely intoxicating. To cry so thoroughly and loudly- to really grieve, was so freeing. To let that sadness just pour out of me was so cleansing- so amazing. But then of course, after the water works finished- I was left wondering, “what’s next?”

I am hoping, praying even, that the next few months will give me clarity and maturity. I am hoping that something will change. A lot of things are going to change in the next few months for me. I hope that my intense feelings, that are predominantly negative, will evaporate into the air around me. I want to be clearheaded- and make decisions based on logic rather than emotion. Irrationality annoys the shit out of me. I’ve become my own pet peeve.

Houston..we have contact.

I got the call at 10 this morning. I slept with both phones next to my bed. I had a restless sleep- the kind you have when you are eagerly waiting for something- the kind you have when you are sleeping only so the next day will come.


I am on cloud nine, even though I know this will not be an easy journey.

I have one wish:

I want her to look back on this day years from now- and be happy that she met me.


above your deep and dreamless sleep- another star lights up the sky.

Being an infant or a bird

I want this so badly that it almost hurts. I need this. I need this to mean something. Every second of my life has brought me to this moment. Every breathe has brought me to this instant.

I am one person's mistake, another's best decision. I am one man's pain, another's joy.

I am a sibling to many but a sister to none.

I am secret and I am a granddaughter.

I am a daughter but a friend, a am both spontaneous and meticulously planned.

I am everything and I am nothing at the same time.

I have always known what I am. I have always been told, always been reminded. I want everything to mean something. I don't like useless pain. I don't like wasted emotions. And I REALLY don't like poor decisions. The choices they've made, the choices I've made, could all make perfect sense. I long to find someone in this mess- just one person- who makes me feel as if it has all been worth it. These past 10 years- I need to know that they haven't been in vain. Sure I know a bunch of shit that I wouldn't have had I not made the decision to reunite- but mere facts do not make up for the gaping holes that I had so desperately try to plug up. It has been worth it, in a purely informational sense, but I admit that even after years of having contact with my biological family, that part of me feels empty. Part of me knows that nothing can ever be fixed. And that is the part of me that decided to search for Stephanie, my biological sister who was adopted a few years before I was. That was the part of me that searched through all of my old records, read the ridiculous story of my past. That was the part of me that went to the bank to get everything notarized, and the part of me that has waited by the phone for weeks.

Tomorrow could be a good day, or a very bad day. This is my final attempt. Tomorrow I will have some sort of answer. Something will have moved. Something will have changed. I am prepared for a rejection- I've had it so many times before. I am hoping to find something new -something beautiful- coursing through my veins. I am hoping beyond hope and praying to no end that I can look into the face of someone whose blood I share and see love in their eyes. I am tired of seeing anger, jealousy, shame, and guilt. I want to see a face, even if it is not like my own, and know that we have a connection. I want to feel it. If it is not there, I want to build it. I will do the work-I've always been willing to- if only someone was willing to work with me.

I did it with D and E, and D and G, and C and M and EVERYONE. I tried and I tried. I want someone to try for me. I want these past years to have led me here. I've traveled this road, and I want to find something at the end of it. I am not looking for a pot of gold- a few specks of bronze will do. Anything shiny enough to mirror my intentions- and the love I could have for these people, if only they would let me.

I never could see, but I'd do it all again.

How I will rise up from the waters where I've drowned.You will know me,you will see- your face will light up from the glory that it's found



I am doing that thing again,denying some parts and accepting others- the rationalization that often accompanies loss. You don't want anything to do with me? Good. I don't want you either. It's a little pathetic,really. Mostly because I can pinpoint exactly what I'm doing. There's no shame in the action, merely the inability to stop. My inability to stop.

If the current project doesn't work out, I'll resign myself to it. I'll fade into the background, the woodwork, or wherever it is that people in my situation fade off into. I've already begun the process, of course, but nothing has been finalized. I can't very well write off everyone, because some people have been nothing but steady, nothing but good. Those who are supposed to be the most deranged end up being the most pristine of all. Opportunity cannot make up for heart, so it would seem, but I think I knew that anyway.

I am casually hopeful- I wait for the phone to ring, for the mail to come, for the "you got mail" voice to signal on my computer. I assume that everyone is as eager as I am, but of course that's not the case. I've seen that first hand.

I'm tired of being told that I've lost. In one side's longing to be important, they refuse to be labeled insignificant. It's sad because it's utterly predictable. Sometimes I want to remind them that the majority of them are just bitter. Very few people or situations can make you so something that you don't want to do. Some people are just victims of circumstance, but that sure isn't everybody. I'm tired of being pressured to feel as if I'M unfeeling because I refuse to accept excuses. Anyone can make excuses- it's not difficult. But not everyone can accept responsibility. That's the hard part. I'm tired of this institution being a breeding ground for rationalization.

I have lost, yes. But I have gained as well. I've gained so much more.The gains can't make up for the losses. Unfortunately, nothing can. Nor would I want it to. I stand firmly where I am, sure of my decisions, and accepting every consequence as quietly as I can. I don't want to collapse- crumbling as I have been these past few months. This is my one last ditch effort at a connection- and finding someone who is a part of me who is lacking in crazy. If I fail, I'll pack up these boxes- tape up these cartons and haul them away. Andiamo avanti, as they say. I'll absolutely do so.

you sing into the night now... just sing on for me

Being notarized is perhaps the biggest pain in the ass ever. I did it, though, in the vain hope that it would be worth it. I want so badly for this to mean something. A door as been closed, and I’m hoping that this is the window that will open.

I hope that she’ll want to meet me-that she’ll be interested in my life and how our lives intertwine. I want to share everything that I’ve learned about our common past with her, I want to encourage her, show her, and help her understand. Perhaps most selfishly, I want to warn her. Things in our past can get pretty freaking ugly, and I want to save someone else the same pain that I’ve experienced.

On that note, I’ve already decided that I will not share any information with anyone else. It may sound selfish- but I’ve done all the work. I’ve made all the phone calls, notarized all the papers, and made all the effort. I am not feeling especially charitable towards anyone right now. I’m tired of letting people walk all over me- and this step has been a positive one in taking control of the situation. I’ve never fully felt a lot of this experience. I’ve tried burying it- it didn’t work. I tried placating myself with contact- that REALLY didn’t work. Unless of course, she asks me to, in which case I will only do so after having thoroughly thought it over. I don’t want to be associated with any of them, (except Mandi, who is absolutely not a problem at all.) I don’t want to be associated with craziness. I don’t want to be a member of that family. I want to be appreciate for exactly what and who I am, and respected for what I have to offer. I would love a friendship, and I am waiting now for a reply.

I am prepared for a rejection. Sometimes, when I think back on my initial contact, I wish I would have known the things I know now. I like to think that I would have run screaming, but I know I wouldn’t have. At least I could have been warned, been prepared. I wish I could have someone who I saw myself in, but who did not embody all of the things I am afraid to become.

How long does the postal system take, anyway?

The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke,dear,I was mistaken. Please don't take my sunshine away.


Sometimes it all comes crashing down upon me. The silliest things can set me off. I watched an episode of "Cold Case" earlier this evening, and it was so sad. Just absoklutely so sad. And all of a sudden, I realized what I had done. Just like I've realized it at random moments the past few months. I don't know how long it's been. Perhaps three months? Maybe even longer. I don't recall exactly. I'm afraid that by the time I get back to them, it's going to be too late.

I constantly try and tell myself that I did what was best for me, that they didn't really matter. I have to be sure that they are not important, because if they are, then I have lost more than I could ever have imagined. If biology matters, then I need them, and I have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Another part of me is angry. Angry that I feel such dedication to them, or such a strong feeling that I should be dedicated to them. They were never dedicated to me, were they? Nope. I want to think so, but I just can't wrap my head around it. GAH

I am so sorry. I am standing my ground now because I feel I should, because I feel obligated to make it as if my decision was completely right. I can't back down, because that means I am indecisive. It isn't enough to just change my mind. It isn't enough. It can never be enough.

I miss them a little bit. Sometimes a lot. Choices, choices. I always preach about choices, and how we should consider the consequences. I guess that applies to me too. Which is why I feel so strongly that I can't go back on this. I want them to want me. I never gave much thought to the fact that I might want them.

let's go to the hills where the outlines are clear

I've noticed that my entries have a tendency to revolve around a common theme. Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel comfortable expressing myself so openly in other places. I have so many outlets- so many safe and understanding outlets, yet it’s sometimes easier to just…write. Sometimes I think people get sick of hearing me bounce around the same ideas in my head over and over. A lot of the things make perfect sense to everyone around me, but I fail to really understand them.

I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt. A whole lot. Perhaps disproportionately so, but either way I can’t seem to stop these feelings of pure culpability. Sometimes I feel vindicated, free and powerful for the steps I’ve taken in my life towards feeling better about my biological situation. Other days I feel like the most selfish bitch on the face of the earth. How could I have made it all about me? I must be a real witch to hurt other people to save myself, save my feelings. It’s not really that I feel unworthy, or that I feel that I am evil. It’s more that I doubt my true intentions. I know that I felt hurt, rejected. This is definitely true. But… what if I did it for the wrong reasons? What if, because I was experiencing feelings of rejection similar to those surrounding my past, I decided to reject them before they could reject me? What sort of fucking psycho would that make me? I know people who do things like this, and I really would prefer not to be one of them. What if, in my sensitivity, I pushed people away who loved me? I know that I’ve destroyed everything we spent 8 years creating. I know that all of it is ruined now, but I can’t seem to truly regret it. I feel guilty, sure, and I question my motives, but I wouldn’t go back and change it and that scares me. The presence of empathy with an absence of the desire to regress makes me uneasy. I suppose you can’t truly regret something unless you would go back and change it. I don’t regret it. I just feel sorry about it, because it’s a sorry situation. I’m sorry that I couldn’t fix things, and perhaps that’s where this guilt is coming from. I failed to repair what had been inexplicably ruined. I couldn’t make it better, and I couldn’t convince myself that it didn’t matter. I couldn’t handle it. Some people say I should have to handle such bullshit, and I know that’s probably true. But where do you draw the line? When should I deal with something just to save someone else’s feelings? When do my needs outweigh someone else’s?

There are the days of silence...

I think it's a little too late for me to go back. By telling D that I didn't want a relationship, I'm stuck in my decision. I wouldn't change it. No. I wouldn't crawl back to them like the piece of slime I feel I am. Nothing will have changed by then, and it would be ridiculous of me to go back and try and work things about because not only will it not work, I will have lost all credibility.

No, I have to stick to my guns, no matter how it hurts. Still...I can't help but think that I could have prevented this somehow. I could have done something, said something. What could I have missed? There's definitely some guilt here, as if I owed them something. I've been conditioned to think that I owe them indefinitely, for life or whatever. But I don't really believe that. My presence took out of their lives for a little while, and their chosen absence from my life took away from me(regardless of all the gains.) I think we are about even. Thanks for my life, and your welcome for those two years of peace you got before your next daughter was born. End of story, right?


I hope he never calls me. On some levels I want him to because I want to be wanted because I have never felt it from them. You can talk about self sacrificing love and selflessness until the cows come home but no one will be able to convince me fully that you can leave someone because you love them. I understand all the logistics behind it, and I can understand selflessness... but I just don't quite buy it. We do what we have to do when it serves us best. At the end of the day, we all look out first and foremost for ourselves. This rule of nature is supposed to be eradicated with parenthood but I don't believe that it is. Selfishness in this respect is easy to cover up, to hide, to excuse. Irresponsibility cloaked with good intentions is still irresponsibility. I don't place any blame, because it WAS for the best. Thank God I am who I am and my family is my family. I do not regret it, but the ends do not justify the means. Because my life worked out beautifully we can all rest on our laurels and preach about good decisions and best interests. My life is good because of the people who raised me, not because of the people who chose not too. Their loss is definitely felt, but blood is not everything and I have to remember that.

I know that I have to focus on school and my family and my friends and my life. I have so much going for me and I know that I should be thankful and I am... but I suppose on some level I still feel badly for how things ended. I guess only time will make that go away, but I sure wish it would speed up a little bit. I don't see any situation where I would ever need them again. I have all of the information I need, and I don't see a time in my life where I would be able to subject myself to a relationship. If E changes, that's one thing, but if she doesn't (I have a distinct feeling that she won't) when could I ever be mature/callous enough to not care about how she hates me? I just don't see that happening, and on some levels it makes me very sad.

I do know one thing though: we all make our decisions. D and C made theirs, D's parent make theirs, E made hers and I finally had the courage to make my own. We make our decisions and then we live with them.

There- absolved of all guilt. These next few months are going to take me farther and farther away from all this craziness. Time can't pass fast enough.

And if you sing this lullaby..

I am going crazy in this little room. The more I try to ignore it the more I fuck up.I am forever guilty and at fault.

The air is finally getting warm . It is 3AM, and I wish I could stay awake until 5:30 so I could go outside and listen to the birds as they wake up. When I was little and woke up at ungodly hours of the morning, I would go into the living room and look out my living room window and listen to the silence of the house. I could hear, outside in the trees beside the house, the birds chirping and singing to the dawn. The sky was mostly dark, but just as I would begin to drift off to sleep with my head on the back of the couch, the sky would turn pink. The trees, black against the tangerine and coral of the sky behind them, were still and the grass was slick with dew and everything smelled like rain.

I would run off the school bus into my fathers arms, and my mother would make salad and pesto for dinner. I'd collect little bugs and try and save the frogs we found outside my hot tub. I had an orange hippopotamus and my mom's green apron and my dad's large rings that he got when he graduated from college. I had opera while I took a bath and played with my lion figurines in the water. I listened to Billy Joel cassette tapes and watched the fish in the fish tank swim as I fell asleep.

Now I have 100 different places and things. I am school I am an apartment in New York I am Pennsylvania I am nowhere. I wear a lot of bracelets and rings and my hair is too short and my eyes never a distinguishable color. I am dirty fish tanks and stupid memoirs and different languages. I am never what I am. I am soy milk and white dogs and windowsills with the paint peeling off . I am arugula and rabbits with people names . I am not the very blood that runs through my veins but am powerless to change it.

I am blond and I am light and I am nobody's but everyone's at the same time. I am not wanted, I was but then I wasn't and then I was and then I was again. Now you can't have me and it's all your fault even though I don't believe that. I long to be my own and my children's, but I have not found them yet. I have questions and I am sailing on an emerald bay. I am never far away. I am not weak and I do not hide every two weeks and I am not afraid. I long to have a place to crawl back to.


I love you and you and you and you. You are great with the ducks, and you with the fish. I should love you both but I cannot do so freely and without regret, and I should be in love and I should be angry but I cannot find the strength to be one or the other.

I know that once I am seen I lose my appeal.

ahhh weariness.

There has never been a simpler way out. Spring break is fast approaching and I could never be more ready. I long to just blend into the familiar smells and noises and comfort of my home. Really, though, I just want to make a new home or go back to the old one, whenever it existed.


I'm embarrassed because I still can't shake it. I try to and I don't think about it but nothing helps. I tell myself that it doesn't matter and I guess on some level it doesn't. Then again at the same time it matters a whole lot and why can't I just fucking get over this bullshit.

I've sort of gotten used to the idea that I am going to need some sort of period, perhaps some sort of mourning period, to sort all of this shit out. I knew that I was going to need it but I've been so crazed with school that I haven't allowed myself to indulge.

Things have gotten easier just as I knew that they would but it doesn't seem to matter because nothing matters.

I'm tired and sleep deprived but I'm still almost happy. It's strange because I shouldn't be but I am.

I have no idea where I am going to school next year but that's okay . I tell myself that it's okay.


Nicolo Piovani makes me happy.

Light.

I have finally found the perfect solution. I think. In theory, it should work. I will put one in a situation where an ultimatum is necessary. And who doesnt love the ultimatem?Who doesn't love the opprotunity to truly spill it, tell it like it is? I know that, personally, I need this. Only the next few days will tell how we proceed. I am ready for whatever comes next. I think I am ready for whatever comes next.