When I first decided to reblog this post, I thought I wouldn’t have words to write as an introduction. Then it occurred to me that I read about a group of mothers who lost their babies to adoption, and two adoptees, all who are a generation younger than I am. I look at the photos on the blog’s page, faces of young children, faces of young parents. Yes, I was there once. And I teetered on the brink of suicide for most of my adult life . I am currently about a month and a half away from my 59th birthday. Forty years ago, almost 41 years ago, when I was 18, I was found by natural family I was never supposed to know. Then turmoil ensued in my adoptive homelike and in my inner self as I numbly went through meeting natural family, beginning at my age then and continued for the next few years. I felt the wrath and disgust of extended family from both sides berate me, pick on me, while only a handful were actually, lovingly, my true family. Through it all, I have been suicidal for most of the past 40 years. Nightmares began that very first night. Sweats, shaking, sobbing alone and in public, fear, anxiety, panic, feeling as though I didn’t know my surroundings, feeling confused, feeling angry that it all was happening — I thought I was alone. Twenty years into reunion, a few years after my divorce, I tried to kill myself in front of my children. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was in psychological pain from constant attacks invading my personal life. I was in psychological pain from the condition of being adopted. Now, as I grow older, my anxiety is somewhat controlled; but it is still there. Adoption is loss, adoption is pain. And now, I see another generation suffer in similar ways that I did. I read about a younger adoptee who completed suicide. And his friends are left in tears.