How has losing my mother affected me?

How has losing my mother affected me?

I had an interesting discussion with my adoptive mother recently, regarding the book "The Primal Wound". I never bought into it... but my mother does! Which surprised me, to say the least.

I've lost my natural mother various times. When I was born, when I was a pre-teen, and two years ago. She has always loved me, though I've gone through  some periods in my life in which I seriously doubted it. How can she have loved me?  Mothers who love their children keep their children. Thats a pretty basic fact. But nothing is basic in the world of adoption. Only in the world of adoption are we introduced, often at a very young age, to the concept of  "love= left."

"Your mother loved you so much that she gave you away."

In what other context does that absurd statement make sense?
Your husband loved you so much that he divorced you.
Your boyfriend loved you so much that he broke up with you.
Your cat loved you so much that she ran away to live with the neighbors.

It all sounds pretty damn stupid, right? Well, it is. I am not an idiot. I don't believe that my mothers love for me is what motivated her to give me to another family. I think my  domineering paternal family, her own insecurities, and my natural fathers threats to break up with her were the more likely catalysts. At the end of the day, though, my mother DID give me away.  You can sugarcoat or rephrase that in anyway you'd like. But I am very sure in my wording.

So where does that leave me? The cast away child, the given away baby... what does that mean for MY existence? For my life?
I am not afraid that my adoptive mother is going to leave me. I am not afraid that one my parents will just stop loving me and pass me along to the next adoptive couple in line. I don't think I'm worthless, I don't think I'm disposable. At least not as the woman I am now. But I am acutely aware of the fact that once my mother gave up her rights to me, I was  a commodity. Like a pair of slippers or a Labrador Retriever. I don't believe that I was preordained by God, or anyone else, to end up in my adoptive family. I belonged with my mother- the one who gave birth to me. Once she didn't want me..nobody did. At least not in the way that most babies are wanted. I was merely "a baby". And whomever adopted me did so because they wanted "a baby"..not because they wanted me. Most parents long for THEIR child, for the baby that THEY created.

My friend (whom I live with) has a blown-up photo of her minutes after birth. She looks confused (as do most newborn babies), and is wrapped in a pink blanket. She hasn't even been dried off. Underneath the photo, there is a handwritten message; saying ( In Italian) " To our niece- the beauty who is much wanted, much loved, and much waited for. We love you, thankyou for being born, Love Aunt & Uncle".

I hate that picture. I hate it so fucking much. I am in her room roughly 6 hours everyday. Our kitchen table is in there ( don't ask) and she has the best breeze. I could draw her room from memory..except the wall near the dresser, where that photo hangs. I don't look there. I purposefully avoid it. It touches something within me, a point of weakness.  It reminds me so much of my biggest flaw, my biggest hurdle in life. My mother gave me away, and then I was nobody. The identity I have forged with my adoptive family has nothing to do with the baby who I was when I was fresh out of the womb.  That child no longer exists.

When people ask me how adoption has affected me...I say "not much". The act of being adopted into my family was not traumatic. I love my family. I feel like I belong with them. The real question, I suppose, is how has my mothers leaving me affected me? How has THAT formed my identity? The answer is: I don't know. I can't know. I don't want to know. I can't bring myself to go there, not on any deep level.

When all of our friends see that photo on my housemates wall, they coo " Oh you were SO CUTE".  The fact that I cannot bring myself to look at that photo without crying says something about the effect my mothers absence has had on my life. The fact that I avoid that entire wall says a lot. In fact, I suspect it says it all.

I don't have any pictures from when I was born.  They don't exist... I've asked my natural family. The earliest I have is when I am about 2 months old, in the arms of my adoptive mother on a stoop in Brooklyn. I'm sleeping. I wonder what I looked like as a newborn. I wonder who was there, who waited for me. But I guess it doesn't matter. The most telling thing is that nobody had a camera.