Loss.

It took a long time for me to admit that being adopted had caused me to lose something. It took me years- and even to this day, 10 years into reunion, its something that people just don’t want to hear about.

“But you have a family who loves you now,” they tell me. And that’s true.
“But you are better of with the family who adopted you” people say. And there is definitely some validity to that statement.

But in general, I am able to brush off these comments. What could people who aren’t in my situation possibly understand about how it has affected me? But recently, a conversation with my birth sister, Pippi, struck me. She too was placed for adoption, a few years before I was. We share a birthmother but not a birthfather. She is very strongly against adoptee rights, claiming that birthparents should be entitled to absolute privacy, should they choose to request it. If the birthparents don’t want to be found, she says, then adoptees should have no right to seek them out. We often debate this, as my own viewpoints are radically different. But in these conversations, it always comes down to one crucial concept: Loss.

Pippi simply does not believe she has lost anything by being placed for adoption, and thus has no invested interest in knowing our birthparents. After all, she explains, she has parents. She does not feel that her birthparents have anything to offer. She’s happy to be alive, grateful that our birthmother made the courageous choice to have us, and also happy that she made the right choice by placing us for adoption.

I find a lot of aspects of her point of view hard to swallow. Grateful? Courageous choice? She sees our birthmother, for all intensive purposes, as a vessel- the courageous but ill prepared woman who brought her into this world so she could be raised by her *real* parents.

I love Pippi, and though I do not agree, I respectfully agree to disagree. But her words really have me thinking- how can this loss that I feel so deeply completely not affect her? She sees meeting our birthparents as something to do out of mere curiosity, something that can be done without emotional consequence. Whereas I have devoted years of my life trying to fit my birthparents into my world, trying to heal what has been broken. Its not that Pippi likes her adoptive parents and I do not. We both have close, fulfilling families. It’s not that Pippi fits in better with her family than I do with mine. In fact, its probably the opposite! So what is it. What makes this loss so real to me and so foreign to her?

Adoption has given me many great things. But in order to have a family who wanted and could provide for me, I had to lose a great deal.  I feel it in BOTH of my families. When my nephews were born and my whole family marveled about who they look like, and I was absent from the conversation. When my family talks about ancestral heritage, of coming from Sicily and Ireland to Brooklyn- and I realize that one some level I am not a part of that history. I feel it when I speak to my birth family, when they talk about times past- dinners tables that I didn’t sit at, love and a sense of belonging that I wasn’t around to experience. I feel the loss when my birthfather recounts the story of my birth, when I read the letters my birthmother wrote to me when I was a baby but never sent, when I see photos of them holding my baby sister- born only a few years after I- loved, cherished, kept. I feel this loss. I feel it everyday. I even feel it when I am with Pippi, and we laugh about some shared joke, or marvel over some shared feature, and I think:

“We could have lived our lives together as sisters. What has happened to our family that we grew up 1,000 miles apart?”

I don’t wish that I hadn’t been adopted. It would be simpler if I could say that I do, but it just isn’t so. And that’s what makes this loss so strange, so difficult to articulate. Because it’s not one that I would change, or do-over. And maybe that’s what Pippi doesn’t feel, maybe that’s what she can’t see. Maybe she doesn't understand that we can love each other, that we can feel sadness without taking away from our joy and our love of our adoptive families.

Maybe I’m just fanciful, or overly sensitive. Maybe I should be a little more like Pippi- able to overlook the bad and focus on the good. But when I am with her, and I look into her face- I see a reflection of myself. I feel happy that we have found each other, overjoyed that we have lived good lives, that we are happy, that we are loved. But I also feel a twinge of sadness- because I spent the first 20 years of my life without her -this spunky, sassy, strong woman who is my sister- and a part of me feels that we should have known each other all along. I look into her eyes, and I feel the loss of “what could have been”, and it makes me a little sad to know that she does not feel the same thing when she gazes into mine.

Regret.

I am stealing this topic from thanksgivingmom, in response to her post about regret.


And here's the truth: I have always wanted my birth family to regret their decision to place me.

Even as I write those words, I am aware of how they make me sound.  The desire for someone else to have regrets is not a proud one, and yet I can’t seem to shake that feeling. I  am constantly torn between my wish for my birthparents to forgive themselves and my desire to feel missed by them, to be wanted by them. My birthparents, both of them, have expressed regret over their choice to place me.

And I admit, though not without being ashamed , that it feels good. My birthparents regret over placing me makes me feel good…and is that so surprising? It does not stem from some sort of sadistic desire to make them “pay” for choosing not to raise me, but instead from a desire to be wanted, to be missed, by the family that chose to expel me.

My birthfather particularly comes to mind. He is a large, strong, burly man- and to see him reduced to tears when talking about my relinquishment has always given me a sort of bittersweet feeling. Because if he does not feel regret, if he does not feel sadness- then what does that mean for me? If the family that I was born into feels no sadness over my loss, over my absence in their lives, then I am meaningless- someone who came but who did not belong, someone who has left, but whose absence has not been felt.

I want to know that I meant something, that they thought of me, that they yearned for me as I have yearned for them.

And yet these feelings are complex. I love my birthfather.  I want so desperately to take away his sadness. I want to hold his large, rough hands. I want to hug him and tell him that it’s okay, that I’m okay. I am happy, I am loved. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to feel sad anymore. I want to thank him for what he has given me.  I don’t offer him my forgiveness…because I am not sure he needs it. I only want him to forgive himself.

I once lost my family of origin. And even though I am now in reunion, even though we have technically found each other, there is something that we can not obtain. Our roles of parent and child have been lost forever. And although I have tried to deny it, and bury it, it is a loss that I cannot escape. I don’t want my birth family to regret having placed me, because the road of regret is a long one, that has no destination. But it is reassuring to know that the sadness I feel is real, even though I can acknowledge that my adoption was the best choice at that time.

I don't know that I will ever have the courage to tell my birthfather how I feel. I want so desperately to protect him from my feelings of sadness, of loss. Because I know that he will blame himself.  Other people have told me that he has revealed to them that he regrets placing me, that he would take me back in an instant, that he fantasizes, even over 20 years later, about me one day deciding to "come home".

We shield one another from our own, private sadness. The regret that neither of us think we should feel.
I do not want him to take on my burden, and I know he does not want me to carry his. One day I hope that we will be honest with one another, that we will share our hurt, our regrets, our feelings on losing one another.  Because only once we understand what we have lost can we look for a way to find one another again.

The Space Between...

It looks as if the visit isn’t going to happen. Surprisingly enough, it has nothing to do with my end. I called my birthfather over this weekend, informing him of the death of my aunt (who he had met on more than one occasion) and he told me that he probably would not be able to make it up North to visit. His work, paired with his stepdaughters wedding, would make it hard for him to get away. I was disappointed, of course. I had finally gotten used to the idea, and was even looking forward to it. I was hopeful about what this would mean for our relationship. But it looks like any visit will have to be put off until next summer, once I return to the USA.

His reasons are totally valid. I get it. And yet somehow I can’t help but wonder if its some sort of excuse, if he is just making up some reasons to not see me. Isn’t that silly of me? He has wanted to have a visit for a long time. He has never done anything to give me the impression that he doesn’t want me in his life. In fact, quite the opposite. And yet I can’t shake these feelings of “Oh God… he’s going to disappear!”

I know that even now, after 10 years, there is still that element of caution in our reunion. My birthfather usually allows me to call him, not the other way around. He tells me that he does not want to disturb me. I always gladly pick up the phone when I see his name on my caller ID, I always respond quickly to his voicemails…and he does the same for me. And yet he is afraid to bother me. He has never been anything but constant in his relationship with me, and yet I am afraid that he does not want to see me again, nervous that he is making up excuses to avoid coming to visit.

How does this happen? Our relationship, that was once so primal, is now so strained. For seemingly no reason! How does this happen- immediate family members struggling to bridge the distance, to close the gaps, to make up for the years we surrendered and lost. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if reunion isn’t just a sad, partner less dance : two groups of people moving in different circles- desperately trying to recreate a link that once existed.

By now I think both my birthfather and I know that it’s impossible- that the bonds that have been broken between us can never be repaired, not fully. I think we both know that the identity I was born into has long disappeared- that the baby who was once his daughter is now grown up, a woman who has created an existence around his absence, one that he can never fully have access to.

This is one of the saddest parts of reunion, I think. I can’t presume to speak for him, but I can speak for myself. It seemingly is not important what we do, how we act. No matter how many times we visit each other, no matter how many long and involved conversations we have, no matter how many beautiful moments we spend together- it seems that subconsciously we return to that one pivotal moment. It seems that no matter how many times we reach out and find the other person waiting for us, loving us- we can never forget that one time when we reached out and were left grappling- yearning for a love that we were never supposed to miss.

Mother's Day

I thought about my birthmother on mothers day. I really did. I even picked up my old photo album and flipped through the pages. On those pages there are plenty of numbers, spanning back about 6 or 7 years. I would keep her numbers in my photo album, never in my address book- afraid someone would open it and see. There are a lot of numbers, all with different area codes. She never kept numbers for long. She never kept residences for long. She rolled about like a tumbleweed- forever moving, forever elusive.


I though about her all throughout the day. As I delicately wrapped the gifts I had purchased for my own mother-  an eclectic middle eastern style necklace, some boxes of 85% cocoa chocolate, and other various knickknacks I had collected over the past month. I thought about her when I baked the mothers day cake, when I trimmed off the edges to make the cake into the shape of a heart, when I iced it with nutella.


I try to imagine what it would have been like to call her, to speak to her. I can hardly remember her voice now, I can’t even tell you what she sounds like. Would she have been  high, or drunk? Would she have been happy to hear from me, or angry like last time?


I know my other siblings don’t think about her.
“She was never a mother to us,” said one, even though she was not placed . “She’s not MY mother. She dug her own hole, now she lies in it. Everything bad in her life she created herself.”


And it is, isn’t it? I make a lot of excuses for my birthmother. At the end of the day, she’s just like the rest of us. She lived the life she chose- free of obligation and care. She lived the way she wanted but she paid a terrible price. And so did her children. Every one of us.


We’re getting together now…slowly. 3 out of 9 are over the legal age. In a few months the 4th will join us, and then the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th. By 2024 the last of her children will have turned 18. I wonder if they will try and find me, or one of the other siblings. I wonder what I can say to them to ease their way, to soothe their hurt. How can I explain our mother to them- in all of her radiant, yet disastrous beauty? Love and its weakness. How can I tell  them that she loved us but didn’t protect us, mothered but didn’t parent, tried but didn’t succeed, fought but never won? Love and its failure.


I thought about her on Mother’s day. And maybe I shouldn’t have. But either way, wherever she is- I hope she felt it. So here’s a quiet happy mothers day- to the mother who gave me every day of my life.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

Useless.

In  a recent conversation with an Italian friend, a novel concept was brought to light. He knew I was adopted, but we had never really discussed the subject at length. It’s just something that doesn’t exist in the same capacity in Italy, so unless we are discussing my particular situation, it’s unlikely to ever come up. Due to the impending visit from my birth family, however, I felt like talking. Andrea, as always, was willing to listen. Our relationship is mostly academic- we compare and analyze various linguistic concepts- never tiring of marveling over the ways our two different languages break down and compare. I always want to better my Italian, and he is just as eager to better his English. But in that moment, we decided to discuss something far less concrete. Why was I nervous about having my birthparents visit? And perhaps more crucially: why on earth were they visiting in the first place, after they had placed me for adoption?


I couldn’t explain it. Not immediately, not in the way I wanted too. My gut response was “but…they are my biological parents. They made me. How can that not be important?” Andrea didn’t see it. Sure, they created me. But that’s “ALL” they did. People have sex all the time. People have babies all the time. The act of reproduction, in and of itself, is not all that special or significant, at least not on any larger scale. It’s all so common. What’s NOT common, however, is the next step. Having a baby and then giving it away. The act of “giving” is very skewed in an adoption context. It’s not common, and it’s not what is generally considered “natural”. The purposeful separation of mother and child goes against all our primal instincts, all of our hearts desires and innate reactions. What mother or father wants to leave their baby, and what baby wants to be left?


And so it is not the creating or the having or the producing that is complex. It is the leaving. It is the separation. It is not what my birthparents DID, that confuses everyone. It’s what they DIDN’T do. I was conceived and born, just as every other child in the world. But that is where I separate from the rest. That is where we, as adoptees and birthparents, separate. There are some days when I feel like this loss, the fact that the people who created me and whose blood I share did not want to raise me, is so deep that  I can never escape it.  And on some level I know that it can never go away. Nothing can ever make me their child again. Not even the best, longest, most well planned out reunion in the world. I will forever be that baby- conceived but not wanted, born but not welcomed, with a mother and father but no parent to be found. 


And so as the visit with my birth family approaches, and I grapple to understand what it will mean for out relationship, I am filled with a sense of rage, of sadness, of compassion, and confusion. What have they done? What have I done? What could they have done, what could have been different, what quality could I have possessed that would have changed the outcome? 


I know that it is not my fault. I know that I was not given away for other people to raise because I was bad, ugly, stupid, or worthless. But its hard, some days, to feel worthy. I know that the life I have created for myself, the life that my adoptive family and I share, has worth. I know that it is special, irreplaceable, and I know that I am loved. But on a primal level, on the level of my being, I feel that I am lacking. And why is that surprising? Was it not for my very existence that I was cast-off into the world and out of the family who brought me into it?


How do we reunite, the leaving and the left? Why do we reunite? Sometimes I feel like reunification gave me the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the piece of myself that I lost. Other times I feel like it is just a superficial bandage on a wound too profound to ever heal completely. Or possibly, as my friend pointed out, I'm trying to heal a wound that isn't really there to begin with. 

Possible visit...

     

   This picture was taken the first time I ever had a visit with my birthfamily. I was not yet a teen when this photo was taken ( and apparently I had never cut my hair??).  I saw them many times after that ...but it has now been 5 years since I saw them last. I speak to my birthfather often, and it is very possible that I will see him this summer. Due to my impending move out of the country, he and his wife (not my birthmother ) have expressed interest in seeing me, always indirectly. The other day, he finally came right out and suggested it. A week or so would be perfect, he said.. in early June- just as the weather in his state is becoming intolerable- the relative cool of New York City would be a welcome retreat. He would come for a week or so, stay in a hotel near my house with his wife and daughter, my birthsister. I know that he has asked to come to me because I would not be welcome at their home. His mother, now old and frail after the death of her husband, lives near them- and I know that she doesn't not want to have to face me again before she leaves this earth. She prefers to leave me, along with the mistakes of her son, behind.

    I've been avoiding them for years, evading this moment as cleverly as I could- shoving them farther and farther behind me, eager to leave them behind. I understand my grandmother's dilemma- it can sometimes be so tempting to bury the ones who have hurt us, to distance ourselves from the loves that failed us.

   I wear my anger comfortably now-  the cast out child, the one who, for better or for worse, has to look in from the outside. How would it be to take off my anger for a while, to expose myself? I have reified them- conceptualized them to the point of mere entities. The members of my birthfamily are not real people to me anymore. Ghosts now, they roam outside the peripherals of my life. How would it be, now, to see them in the flesh? My flesh. To look again into the eyes of people whose faces mirror my own, to reunite with the clan to whom I can never fully belong?

  The idea terrifies me. They want to see me, they say. Just once more before I leave the country again, just once more before I become virtually in-findeable. I know that their intentions are good, I know that my birthfather wants to see me so badly. I don't understand his love for me, though I find it flattering. But this love that I have not earned, that I perhaps do not deserve, makes me uneasy. I feel guilty for having such a hold on him. How can he want to see me so badly? What is this connection between us? I feel guilty for this nonreciprocating devotion, the eagerness in his voice when we talk about a possible visit. My own hesitance.

  I could make up an excuse. I will be busy this summer. Between embassy visits, packing, organizing, studying and apartment browsing- my summer is fairly packed. It would not be a lie to say I cannot fit it in. I could politely decline, make half hearted promises about a visit in a year or two, when I return to the USA. I could escape- leave the country and return to my haven amongst the olive trees and the blood red oranges. I could bathe my feet in the warm waters of the sea, lie on the sand and walk on the stones of a country where I am free--untangled from the short life that I lived before the one I have now. I could escape without ever having to look my past in the face.

What should I do?

Anger..where does it come from?

I found this post about angry adoptees on a birthmother blog ring on Suz's blog. Needless to say, I was curious, and when I went to read what was being written , I was a little perturbed, to say the least. But not for the reason one might expect.



There are a lot of birthparents out there in blogland, some of whom I have spoken with at length, who really wanted to keep their children, who would have gone to the ends of the earth had they been able to.I’d even go so far as to say that they are the majority. They are seemingly baffled about why their children do not want anything to do with them, surprised when their children retreat, pull away, or disappear. Although I see the injustice of their actions, I am not particularly surprised.



Those birthparents are offended, and why shouldn’t they be? The children they worried about and cared about for years, even from a distance, are not what they expected. They are not receiving the welcome they had dreamed of. But I think they are making the mistake of mixing up intentions with results, logistics with feeling. While my birthparents relinquished me because they truly did not want to raise me, I know that for many birthparents this is not the case. And yet….there is little difference between myself and the children whose birthparents wanted them. We were all placed, we all know the sting of original rejection, original abandonment, even though in many cases there was really no rejection, no real abandonment. But it doesn’t matter. We can hear the story 100 times about how much our parents wanted us, about how hard our relinquishment was difficult, how we were loved. But that does not change the next part of the equation, that does not remove the “but” that invariably comes after protestations of undying love.
“We loved you, we wanted you, you were cherished and special and nothing was wrong with you…BUT we placed you for adoption anyway.”

The people who brought us into this world did not want to or could not raise us- regardless of the reason. The intentions, however bad or honorable, do not change the outcome for us. We were adopted, cut off from our heritage, family of origin, from our roots. And I have yet to see a reunion that can close that gap, that can bridge us back together. And yet we are expected to be grateful, we are expected to be open and unreserved with our love and affection, we are expected to say “thank you” , to include them in our lives, to value them as indispensable people in our lives.

But yet we are eternally aware of our own dispensability, our own sense of inadequacy. I sympathize with birthparents whose children treat them in a bad way. Some of the things I read on that blog disgusted me (guest towels? Really?). I am embarrassed when I see adoptees entering into reunions, and then taking out their anger (however justifiable) on their unsuspecting birthparents. It is not fair and it is not right. But neither is it right to classify we adoptees as cold hearted, insensitive, or uncaring.  I know how they feel, those adoptees.  I know the anger, the one we seemingly cannot justify.

I care for my birthfather, I might even love him..but I will always hold back a part of myself. I will always be on reserve, be on alert- certain that if I do anything wrong, he will leave me again. It is that insecurity that feeds this anger, the fear of being hurt, of being left again. Sometimes we decide to jump ship first, though I don’t find it particularly admirable. Some of us lash out, while others keep it all inside. I will never tell my birthfather about these ugly feelings I have. It is not his burden to bear. But on some level I never want to let him get too close. He had his chance at loving me , at having me in my entirety. He had his chance to be my dad, and he let it go. He let me go. I ache when I think of his pain, his regret.

 But there is a deeper part, a less forgiving part, that remembers how it felt to be relinquished, that is convinced that no matter what my birthparents say, they gave me to someone else, they gave me away. And there’s a part of me, perhaps even a part of “us”, that can never forget that.

Forgiveness.

        At one point during my reunion, my birthfather apologized to me. I was caught of guard. I had never considered that placing me for adoption was something for which he should be sorry. I wanted him to regret it, I guess, on some fucked up level- because I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to know that my absence wasn’t as easy as he had thought it would be when he signed those papers. I wanted to matter to him, to all of them. I never really expressed my feelings to him, not totally, never in their entirety. He knew that my relinquishment and subsequent reunion had a profound affect on me, but on some level I’ve never felt like it was his burden to bear. So when he apologized to me, when he asked for my forgiveness….I was momentarily silenced.


“I have robbed you of something vital, something irreplaceable. I know that you feel like you belong with your family, and you do. Nurture is just a much a part of you as nature. But… I’ve always felt that even though they raised you, you were still mine. You are my daughter, and I have taken your biological family from you. I have robbed you of something precious. I hope that I have not hurt you too much. I am sorry.

He never uses the word regret. He never outright says that he would change it if he could. He uses a lot of phrases like “ what was best at the time,” and “thought I was making the right decision.”

 I want so desperately to understand him. He is a large man, muscular and tall. He has tan skin and a head full of wavy, thick hair. He is gruff and speaks in a gravely voice. And yet, when I see him, when I speak to him, I hear the tones of a wounded man, of a man who can never take back what he’s done, whose life has gone so far off the course that was expected of him- that he expected of himself. My adoption was not coerced, it was not forced- certainly not on the part of my birthfather, who was instrumental in my relinquishment. I know that he did it on purpose, that on the day I was born, he looked at me and made the decision to remove me from his life. I want so badly to reassure him, to soothe his pain, to tell him that I understand. Even though I don’t.

I know that I have lost something, I know that something inside of me is broken, missing…something that not even reunion can restore. And yet, my adoption has worked. I am happy, loved, cherished. But I can’t help wonder -was this how my life was meant to be? In order to gain the life I love- was I destined to lose everything?



I am hurt and angry that I was placed and my other siblings were not. I am sad that I, as his first child, was not loved and cherished and wanted. I am hurt that I feel this never ending sense of inadequacy. I hate that no matter how successful I am, no matter how many people tell me that they love me , I know that I am inherently flawed in some way, that my first parents giving me up has done something irreparable to me. And yet, there is a part of me that loves him, that cannot stand to hurt him. I could never tell him these things. He does not deserve to feel sad, to feel regret. I hear his steely resolve cracking when he speaks about relinquishing me, the pain in the cadences of his voice. I know that he will carry the weight of his choice for the rest of his life.

He was once my father. He gave me up, but he has also given me a gift. I know that I owe him one in return.


“Forgive you?” I say. “Rest easy, Paulo, there is nothing to forgive.”

My Story Part 2- Glimpses

part II - glimpses of my life before reunion

I am six, and rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen. I find a pile of photos, wrapped together with a rubber band. I bring them to my mother, and ask her what they are. They are not photos, she explains to me, but various postcards and funeral announcements. There are small laminated cards with various depictions of the Virgin Mary, some dating back over 75 years. There is a small laminate of Johannes Vermeer's “Girl with the pearl earring”. I ask my mother who this woman is, and she tells me that nobody knows who she really is. She is a mystery. Later on that night, I sneak into the kitchen and find that little card. I take it into my room, and hide it in my top drawer, underneath my white laced undershirts and Barbie socks. It will be years, still, until I see my birthmothers photograph. Until that day, whenever my adoption is discussed, and I wrack my brain in an attempt to conjure up an image of the woman who was my mother.. I picture Vermeer’s famous portrait. I don’t think my mother ever notices that it’s gone missing. I take it out when nobody is looking, and stare into the woman’s eyes, though her gaze never meets my own.


-----------------------


My parents are taking me to therapy. I am uncomfortable discussing my adoption, and they worry. I am eight years old. I sit with my parents in the doctor’s dark office. She is kind to me and offers me markers and a pad of paper. I talk to her while I sketch a lion, a tree, a zebra and a cupcake. She asks me to draw my family. I do it. It is an accurate depiction- myself, my father, my mother, my brother, and my cats. My parents are silent beside me.
            “What about your birthparents?” she asks me, using their first names. I freeze. “Why don’t we talk about them for a while?”
            I shake my head no. She asks me why. I shake my head no again. “This is the elephant in the room,” explains the doctor. I don’t know what this means but I picture a large, pink elephant standing between us. They ask me again, “what about Francesca and Paulo?” she asks. Let’s talk about them. I close my ears and say loudly, “ I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you.” At hearing my birthparents names again, I run through the door, out of the lobby, and outside into the cold. I climb up a small pine tree right outside the office. I expect my parents to show up any moment. I can see them through the office window. They can see me. I turn away, and face the parking lot. The sun begins to set. They do not follow me, they do not demand that I come down. I tree bark is rough against my cheek. I do not say a word.
-----------------------
The bark bench is warm. I am sitting with my mother and some of her friends. I long to go on the monkey bars, where my friends are, but I have to finish my lunch first. I sit listlessly in the heat, munching on watermelon, listening to my mom and the other mothers chat. They are talking about the days their children were born. They go into detail, about the months proceeding, about the hospital stay. My own mother is curiously quiet. She smiles, and listens intently to what the others have to say. I finish my watermelon, and throw the rind to the dusty ground. I almost get up to leave, when I see my mothers face. I sit back down. I scoot a little closer to her, touch her hand. We do not make eye contact. She squeezes my hand ever so slightly, a reassurance.

-----------------------
I ask a lot of questions. What is my birthmother like? She is very beautiful. My birthfather? Strong and handsome. These come easily to my mother, who chops garlic and basil and drops them into the blender. We are making pesto. I pluck the basil leaves off the stems. The air is fragrant, summer time. The fan is on low, gentle breeze that cools us off just enough. My father is in the living room behind us, watching jeopardy. Occasionally, he yells out an answer. “Did they love me?” I ask. My mother does not stop chopping. “Yes they did, very much.” I pluck a few more leaves, my mother tells me to leave the rest on the plant, that we have enough. That if we pluck too many the plant will die. “But they gave me away.” I say. My mother stops chopping. She places down the knife, turns to me. “ They couldn’t raise any baby at that time, they placed you for adoption because they weren’t ready to be parents.” I am silent. I pluck a leaf off the basil plant. My mother does not chastise me.
     “But..you said they loved me,” I whisper.
      “They did”
       “But they gave me away.” I hear that my father has muted the TV in the next room. He is listening.
       “Grownup problems are difficult,” she says, wiping her hands on her dark green apron, “they had grownup problems that had nothing to do with you.” I smile and my mother smiles back. I am unconvinced.
-----------------------

I do not tell my friends that I am adopted. Finally, one day, in my 4th grade class, I let it slip. I tell my 4 best friends. They are astonished, they beg to know the details. Were you in an orphanage? Why didn’t anyone want you? Overwhelmed, I try and take it back, try to convince them that I was joking. They give me a strange look. I insist that it was a joke.


----------------------

I do not watch a lot of TV. I watch a lot of PBS and BBC. One day , there is an Italian production of the play “Romeo e Giulietta.” I am engrossed. My mother comes in and sees what I am watching. I do not understand all of the Italian, so I ask her to tell me the story. She does, and I am astounded grotesquely fascinated with it. Two people who fell in love but shouldn’t have. Two people who made mistakes, who paid the ultimate price. I feel sorry for them. I tell my mother this and she smiles a little bit.
     “Oh Romeo and Juliet….a pair of stupid teenagers!” I am quiet. “They acted rashly,” continues my mother, “ we cannot feel sorry for them- they made their foolish choices. Really we feel bad for their families. ”
     “Still, I feel sad for them. I say, tentatively. I understand that Juliet and Romeo cannot take back what they‘ve done. How would things have been different if they‘d only known how permanent their decision was? How permanent. How foolish.
     “Sometimes it takes losing everything to realize what you had,” my mother says. I have a feeling she is not really speaking to me.
     “I bet the families wish they had just let them be together,” I say, decisively.
     “ Mmm,” my mother murmers, “I bet you’re right.”


-----------------------
I have mentioned wanting to meet my birthparents on more than one occasion. I was always told that I could, when I was a little older. So when I am still in middle school, and my mother nonchalantly asks me if I’d like to know my birthfather while we are returning from the grocery store, I am too shocked to speak.
  “He has written you a letter,” she says. “ I have it at home.”
     I think. By now I have a few photos of them, from a few days before I was born. My birthmother is breathtaking, with long , dark auburn hair and creamy skin. Her lips are a deep, red color. Her fingernails are painted to match. In the photo she stands next to my birthfather, who is large and strong looking. He has deep golden hair that curls, and is dressed sharply in khaki pants and a polo shirt. He has his arm around her shoulder. I know that my parents are the ones taking the picture. They photo is at a distance, and I strain my eyes to see them up close. My birthfather stands up straight, he smiles right at the camera. He is confident. My birthmother does not. She is facing the camera, but looking slightly to her right. She does not look directly into the lens, her attention is elsewhere. She is like this in all of the pictures- elusive, always slightly out of reach. She is not smiling.



We are driving and the air is warm and the sun is calm. We pull into our driveway.
     “The letter is here?” I ask, “right now?”
     “Yes,” my mother says, “ would you like to read it? Maybe write him a letter back?” I do not hesitate.
     “Yes,” I say. And I open the door.

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?