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.