Dear Friends and Family,
Bear with me as I go through this. I try to be open-minded and respectful of people and their feelings. I like to see all sides of a circumstance and understand the perspectives and feelings of those not my own and hold no judgment in their differences. I know we all have a right to our feelings. Right now, though, I am not interested in seeing the other side. Right now, I want to be angry, happy, sad, scared, frustrated, and hopeful. I am not interested in measuring my feelings. I will, I promise, but in the meantime I may (most certainly will) say, think, and feel things that will hurt someone’s feelings and for that I am truly sorry. But right now, I want to feel what I feel and not have to try to be so fucking understanding about it.
Guilt is my greatest companion these days.
I feel light and joyful repeating:
She loved me, always. She wanted me, always. She never gave me away.
I cannot adequately put into words how comforted I feel knowing that. Knowing that all these years I spent confused, lost, angry and sad for being so unwanted, so cast aside – I wasn’t unwanted and I had not been cast aside.
But then I ask myself, as many have asked me before and as you may be asking yourselves now, how come I could not find the same comfort knowing that I was loved, always, and wanted, always, by the parents who raised me. How come it was not enough knowing that of the parents who spent my life with me?
What must it have been like for my parents to raise me, the girl who could not get right with being discarded from one family?
So hard did I cling to that that being welcomed in to another family could not wash away the stink of my desolation.
Did I even give them a chance?
My brother was older, almost 6 at the time of the adoption. We all always knew things would be hard(er) for him. They say that who you are is almost set by that age; it is very hard for older children to be adopted for that reason. I was supposed to be easier because I had no memories from a life before, getting over it and moving forward should have been simple enough.
It turns out, I never did get over it (whatever that is supposed to mean) even after I found acceptance, after I forgave, after I knew – my displacement, my birth mother’s choice, my birth father’s choice – those things were never about me; not about who I was, how much I was loved, how much I was wanted, how much I was worthy of good things. None of that knowledge changed how I went out in the world, though.
It never changed how frustrated I was with the mom who raised me. It never changed how much I resented her for our differences; we looked differently, thought differently, lived differently. Even after I found acceptance around that, flawed as it was, it has changed very little.
It took a week; hell, it took a sentence in an email from a woman I barely know, to wipe away years, YEARS, of hurt, pain, and isolation. Yet I spent a lifetime with a family who gave me everything I could have ever wanted: laughter, love, stability, support, structure, tickets to NewKidsOnTheBlock for my 9th birthday…
How can I ever apologize for the pain I know that I have caused over the years? How can I ever say I am sorry for having everything I could have ever wanted and not letting that be enough?