Usually I’m good at being able to put words to my feelings, but since last month, I haven’t been able to write down how I feel.
Last month, I decided I was going to finally face what adoption has been like for me. I finally found the courage to face the burns that adoption has had on my life, and who I’ve been because of it, and where I am in life.
I was adopted as a baby at 8 months. This means, unlike some, I had 8 months with my birth mother. I keep wishing I could remember those 8 months. I keep wishing I could remember her face, her smell, her voice, just so I can feel better about the last twenty-nine years of my life, so that her assumption of a better life for me, would be true, just for her sake. It must have been hard to have to give up your child after caring, tending, loving, this child for the first 8 months. I don’t doubt while life was hard for her, and her circumstances one she wishes was better, she loved me. Maybe not.
I used to be very angry about being adopted, about feeling like the only person in the crowd without a mother, like the only person in the world hoping to be loved, and wanted. I used to be very angry about not having siblings, because it was so lonely. I hated the feeling like I never belonged. I used to get angry that I had to work extra hard to be liked, so they wouldn’t disregard me before they got to know me. I used to be so nice to every woman I meet, in hopes they’d take me and be my mother.
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I hated the fact that as a child, with any family related assignments, I would have to explain myself, over and over again, every damn year about how I’m adopted, because there was always an assignment about who we were that we had to write about.
I hated the fact that if there was a moment in class where I had to participate with my thoughts, on topic of family, that I’d have to first introduce my thoughts as being an adoptee and proceed to defend my perspective.
I hated my father’s friend’s who knew that he had an adopted daughter would still manage to slip with, “Is that the one? The “ampon” (adopted) you got?” As if it mattered at all.
I hated that even though the only family I have ever known is the adoptive family I have, some still manage to spew our differences in moments of predicaments, because “we’re not blood”.
I hated the fact that, I always had to prove myself to everyone, not just my adoptive family.
I hated the fact I was so obedient as a child, and as soon as I wanted to take a stand for the person I thought I was and that person to make decisions for herself, I was viewed to be troubled and rebellious by those I call family.
I hated the fact that because I was adopted, I had to suffer some of the worst traumatic experiences growing up.
I hated the fact that after being adopted already, I still managed to end up in foster care for a year and a half, because my adoptive father couldn’t be bothered to love me the way I deserved and needed to, and not the way he thought I should.
I hated the fact that I only spent 3 years with my adoptive father, and he left me for six years. On the ninth year of my life, I moved to Canada only to spend the next few years being bounced around within the family, summer vacations (two months a year) at his friends house.
I hated the fact that though he knew I was breaking, he couldn’t be bothered to care for all of my pieces of me, and just chose the ones he felt he could love.
I hated the fact that I never got to build strong friendships with people as a child, because I was always the one not allowed to go to birthday parties, or go for sleep overs with friends.
I hate the fact that on my birthday every year, I hate myself and I hate this day. It reminds me of the day I was born, and shortly after was given away. I hate that this day reminds me of my birth mom and the annoying feeling of yearning for her, and I can’t do anything about it.
I hate the fact that I was so pleasing as a child, but it never got me anywhere.
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The list is long, and one that requires a lot of work to release. It is only now after twenty-nine years that I have found the courage to face the person I have always hated. When I say the word hate, I mean that with every bit of me. I hate the angry person that I am. I hate that in any confrontation, I am ready to jump the other person with the negativity that’s just burning around me. I am this person viewed to be “strong” only because others think I don’t take shit lightly. But do you know how exhausting it is to be constantly on fight mode? To always feel like everything you do and say has to be followed by a defensive excuse. I hate who I am. I DO.
x, BSM
BLACKSHEEPMARS 