When Adoption Takes A Life

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.

Another Version of Mother

I thrashed around in my bed, the heavy blanket twisting around my legs, confining me, making me feel trapped. As the light from the street snuck in through an uncurtained corner, I pulled myself up, heaving. My eyes and cheeks were wet from the nightmare I’d just woken up from.

“You weren’t alone. You know that now, right?” I demanded into the still room.

There was no answer, of course. How could there have been? He wasn’t there. He isn’t here. We are left to tell ourselves oversimplified cliches to make ourselves feel better, but my heart yearned to have one more chance. What I would give to be able to see him, take his hand, look into his eyes and say, “You are worth every breath you have taken, every breath you are taking right this moment, and every single breath that you will take in the future.”


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