Silence

It's been over a month since I've heard from "Mommie" To say that it doesn't hurt is a lie.
How can a mother, MY mother be so cold? All the childish fantasies I had about her have been ripped to shreds.
She never was looking for me, she never wanted me and is less than thrilled that I found her.
How do I live with being rejected and unwanted AGAIN?
What kind of human being hurts someone at such a deep level and where do I go from here? Where does the pain go?
For now I put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
I'm doing a side route around her to contact other family members. I finally reached out to my sister but she has been just as reluctant as my mother. Which opens up a whole other level of hurt. 
She's the one Mommie kept, older than me, whiter than me, better than me? 
I can't take from her that which was never mine to begin with. I am no threat to her, I just wanted to know her.
But after her lukewarm email I am second guessing that too!
To have a life long search end like this is heartbreaking to say the least and makes me wonder if I've wasted my time after all. 

The Waiting Game

It's been 2 weeks since I've heard from dear old bMom....
The angry adult side of me wants to just say FU and forget about her. I mean who the hell does she think she is playing with my life like this?
But the child in me who has searched for 48 years wants to know why she couldn't love me. Then and now. Why she kept my older sister and why she gave ME away.
I know the sound of the mail truck like my dogs know the sound of the treat jar.
Waiting.....Waiting.....for her letter.
I am held prisoner by her and it is not a position I am used to being in.
This fog of depression and helplessness threatens to take me over yet again.
From her 1st cruel rejection to her last letter I am on a roller coaster that she is driving.
My entire summer has been a waiting game, a search that has gone nowhere. Hours and hours spent at the computer searching for info and clues.
All the things I wanted to do this summer have passed me by and I can't recapture that time.
I am so angry at her for this and angry at myself for allowing it. This doesn't just affect me you bitch!
My granddaughter feels it too, my lack of energy, my sadness, my ache.
She needs me to be a consistent figure for her and your selfishness is robbing me of that. For that I hate you!
And I hate myself even more for allowing you to control my emotions.
And then there is the tiniest glimmer of hope as I listen for the mail truck to bring me one of your letters...........
And so I wait.................................................................

Lost Daughters: My Bi-Racial Life

Something I wrote for Lost Daughters about being a bi-racial adoptee.....


Lost Daughters: My Bi-Racial Life

Dear_________

Rec'd my 3rd letter from bMother yesterday. Ripped it open like a present on Christmas morning, sat down and all else faded away.
She never addresses them to me or signs them which I find strange. As if I don't matter or exist. Like she's writing to an anonymous source that has no connection to her. It diminishes me I feel.
She tells me "I am the kind of person who gives away a baby, tosses her in the trash."
What the hell does that mean?
Did she toss me in the trash? Did she think of me as trash?
She says " That is why I treat my children like Gods, let them walk all over me."
I got news for you lady, I AM YOUR CHILD!
Does she have any idea how those words sting?
Was I not worthy of the same adoration because my father is black?
She stayed with him for 3 years during and after my birth.
So it's OK to have a long term relationship with a black guy in the 60's but not OK to raise the child you created?
She kept an older sister that has a white father and a younger brother with a white father.Gee thanks "Ma"....
I find no comfort in her words or actions, no solace, no warmth.

She doesn't respond to the many questions I have asked and instead gives me her version of history.
This cat & mouse game we are playing is childish as best!
Sending what information she deems viable though the mail is time consuming, annoying and infuriating.
I don't understand a mother that doesn't want to know her child. I don't understand her fear or reluctance to tell me things I have the right to know.
We don't have to be friends, we don't have to be anything, just answer my questions and I'll be on my way.
Is that too much to ask?

Before & After

Before I had my OBC I had dreams, hopes. A rich and pretty fantasy where I was searched for, wanted,loved.
Where my children were met with excitement, acceptance and love.
An Oprah reunion moment with all the people who looked like me.
We'd hug, cry and be one big happy family. I would go to family reunions and truly really be a part of a family. MY family.
I would learn about my heritage, where I came from and be able to have a REAL family tree. 
And I would feel truly whole for the 1st time in my life.
Silly silly girl.


Crash land into the "After" OBC life where things are dark and gloomy.
And it makes me wonder if not knowing is better. If hope is better than abject rejection.
I haven't been the same person since that one small piece of paper came in the mail. The thrill of that piece of paper has long since worn off. The excitement and wonder, the hope and fantasy ripped to shreds. 
So who am I now? 
Still unwanted, parts still unknown with no clearer picture of who I am that I had weeks ago. Where does the anger and sorrow go? Who do I direct it to? Does it eat away at me for the rest of my life?
Do I remain in sadness, the colors slowly seeping from my world?
Is this my punishment for demanding the truth?
I still look at that piece of paper every day, looking for what I do not know. 
I hold out the tiniest sliver of hope that she will come around.
That she will want to know me. Will let loose of the secrets that only she knows the answers to. 
Until then I am at her mercy. 

When I was a little girl I used to lay in bed at night,stare at the moon and think of my Mother. In my mind she was a beautiful brown haired Gypsy searching the ends of the earth for me. 

I would drift off to sleep convinced she would find me....Someday.

Fast forward 40+ years and discover she never was looking for me.

A hard pill to swallow.

I have been an angry adoptee most of my life. Never understood how anyone could give a child away like a pair of pants that don't fit anymore.

Sure I've gone on with life, married, had kids, married again, lost the only parents I ever knew. But I never stopped being that angry kid, that unwanted kid.

The effects of being in a "Childrens Home" for 4 months before being adopted have been life long for me.

That feeling of alone~ness and abandonment have never left me. 

Every time I see that P.D.Eastman book "Are You My Mother" I want to fly into a rage or sink into depression.

I have felt like a boat aimlessly adrift in the ocean my whole life and I'm not sure that will ever change.

Adoption is FOREVER.....The pain, the questions, the secrets, the whispers. 

It never goes away, it never gets easier, the pain is always there. FOREVER!