Bored out of my wits last year – not to mention I’m a frustrated writer – I thought how great it would be to write a story about my life. It was just a fancy thought and not really having any base story to start with. It was a romantic notion to think that my life is as colorful and interesting as those books I often find myself reading. What a boring life I lead, “I thought.”
Boy, was I wrong! Anyone ever told you to be careful what you wish for? Yes, well, you should.
On my 35th birthday I found out I’m adopted. I received a birthday message from my biological mother blatantly admitting the truth. To say it’s so shocking is an understatement. Hell! I was shaking, hurt, and in denial. I was more than devastated! My whole world came crashing down. Life smashed its ugly horns at me, direct where it hurt the most. Not to mention, it was my birthday – a supposedly happy day.
Of course, it’s been almost a month from whence I learned the truth. I know snippets of information about my adoption. I just recently had the courage to confront my adoptive mother and I haven’t even spoken to my Dad. However, I couldn’t find the strength to confront my biological mother even though I know she has all the answers. My emotions skyrocket now and then – to pangs of sadness, loss, angst, grief, and stolen time. I’ve been masking my pain by going on with my life, like nothing really happened. Some days are hard and other days are a breeze. My thoughts are all over the place like the scattered glow of tonight’s light cast by the moon over my glass window – with jagged-like edges that somehow cut like a knife in my already wounded pride.
As a matter of fact, I haven’t been fully honest with myself for I have not come to terms with my being adopted. I’ve been told I’m still the same person. You agree with them of course because the same face reflects when you stand before a mirror. But at the same time, you look at yourself strangely different, like that of a stranger looking back at a familiar face. You get people telling you are still you, and you just smile at them because what’s the point of explaining to them you no longer feel the same? Apart from that, you pretend to be happy for the sake of the people who love you. What’s the point of having to carry the weight of their worry over your shoulder? You look at your home; you feel the walls and the corners are all different. Like those dark corners that hide the ugly side of that long-kept secret. You need an outlet for the anger, and when you can’t find any, it is solely directed at how life is unfair.
Coupled with, the impression that, that portion of your life was thrust to you by other people’s choices. You were just a babe to have a say at anything. Not withstanding the pain of being given up, and however unacceptable the reason was the act for me, I can’t find my anger fully directed towards the woman who carried me in her womb and breathe life to me. How hard it must have been for her to lose a child? Yet, no matter how selfless a mother’s act was at giving her child up, the adopted child couldn’t help but harden her heart a little. Can she love another like the love she give every day to the woman who raised her? When is the time to meet her “real” family? Would all of them accept her? Would she ever be ready to see her biological mother? If they hug her, would she pull away and run or would she hug them back tightly? Those are the thoughts running through every adopted child’s mind. At least in my case, they were.
I couldn’t find it in my heart to really understand why it was kept secret all these years. It would have been easier had my parents prepared me for this day. I love my adoptive parents and I’ll forever be grateful for every thing they’ve done for me to make me feel like I’m their biological daughter. Yet, somehow I wonder how my life would turn out had my biological mother raised me? The guilt of even just calling Mom and Dad “adoptive parents” gnaws at me. I shouldn’t refer to myself as “adopted”, I was told. The thing is, it’s the ugly truth.
Life is but a motion where you move aimlessly with the rhythm. Some people’s lives have lovely, joyous songs. And some, rare people like me, have songs that rends a heart. Life is a struggle for an adopted child; it’s a struggle with her inner demons. No matter how loving the home she’s placed at – there will always be fragments of that loss. It’s going to be a struggle now to let herself feel accepted. To an adopted child, she feels she has two kinds of life: one is the life she’s snatched from; second, is the life she’s always known.
None of them, at this moment feel like I belong.