My Adoptive Mother




It’s a hell of a thing, being brought up in a strangers family.  It’s thankfully rare.  It should be rare.  Children should not have to deal with that kind of pain.

No one needs to be cut off from their roots like that.  Every human being deserves to know who their parents are.

When I found my family, it changed everything.  Not in my day to day life so much, but in my internal life.  I was not the same as I was before.  I had finally seen the monster in the closet, and I did not die.

After I found my family, I had some hard conversations with my adoptive mother.  I was outraged that she had gone along with the whole closed adoption thing.  Suddenly, my whole life up to then had been a lie.  I knew I was adopted, but I did not know why.  My mother had been abstract, unknown and feared.  By me, and my adoptive mother.  We had that in common, but not anymore.

My adoptive mother clung to the belief that she did nothing wrong.  She followed the social workers advice.  If I had a problem with being adopted, it was not her fault.  She did as she was told.

That unfortunately, was not good enough.

I can’t remember when I stopped loving her, but I was very young.  Maybe it was when she said she was my only mother.  Maybe it was when she dropped me off at her sisters for the summer.  Somewhere along the line, I realized I was alone.

I hated when she said she loved me.  I wanted to scream in her face, “then why aren’t you helping me find my mother?’.  But, of course I never did.  There would be no point.  She was doing everything right, just as she was told.

She wanted her own baby, not me.

I was so dumb, I didn’t know that when I was growing up.  I thought I was the only one in pain.  Now I know that’s not true.  She was hurting just as much.  We could not help each other.

The difference is, she chose to adopt.  She chose to bring a helpless little person into her messed up world of pain.  I chose nothing.

I guess she thought I would fix her.  I did not.  It should not have been my job to fix a strange grown up woman.  I wish we had never crossed paths.


adoptee, adoption, anger, birthfather, birthmother, brainwashing, family, father, mental illness, mother, pain, rejection, reunion, shunning, Uncategorized

The Past



Last night, I woke in the middle of the night, and I felt such fear and dread.  I sought the root of the feeling, and could not find it.  I remembered that I have always felt this, and that the feeling has no name.  I also remembered that it will pass.  It will return, and it will go away again.  I think we all have these feelings.  It’s the human condition.

When I think back on my childhood, I cannot find any happy memories.  None.  The whole thing is colored a dark grey, by my adoption.  Losing my mother, and never being allowed to even speak of it, colored my life.

No family. No one. Nothing. Every day, all day.

I could not wait to escape from my adoptive parents house.  I met my husband when I was 16.  Someone who could save me, and make me whole.

“But, your adoptive parents loved you.  They did not abuse you! They raised you!”.

I know. I was there.  They tried, but I was so hurt.  I could not feel their love.  Their love was spoiled for me, because it came at the expense of my real family.  I should not have been put in such an impossible position.  I could not accept the love of the ones who I felt were responsible for my loss.

Did they really love me?  I suppose so.  I was a good enough child.  But, I was not, and could never be their child.  They had to maintain the illusion that I was.  They did not tell anyone that I was adopted.  It was a hidden family secret, one that I dared not speak of.

How I hated the phrase, “when we got you”.  Got me? I wanted “when you were born”.  I wanted my mother to tell the story, of my birth, not the story of these  strangers who somehow, “got me”.

Even as a young child, I felt this way.

It was a lost cause, from the start.  I was broken, unable to be fixed.  On my own, from the start.  I had to turn my heart to stone.

I remember, being at my Auntie Irene’s house, during the long hot summers when I was 6 & 7.  There were 4 older kids there, my adoptive cousins.  They did not like me much.  The feeling was mutual, but I was at a disadvantage.  I was all alone, and they had each other, as well as their real parents, and I was an unwelcome guest in their home.  My adoptive parents sent me there so they could both work full time during the summer.

I used to lie awake in my borrowed bed, listening to my adoptive uncle’s snores and will my heart to be hard, like a stone so I would not feel the pain of being left alone, again.  I locked my self in the bathroom, and said every curse word I knew.

I went home on weekends, and never told my adoptive mother any of it.  I never told her the sex games my cousins would play either.  I finally told her when I was an adult, and she said, “why didn’t you tell me”.  Sigh.

Would I have sadness if I hadn’t been adopted?  I’m sure.  My real mother had issues.  I still loved and needed her.