What does it mean to be adopted at birth?

This is a question I roll around in my mind often; well, sometimes too often, and sometimes not at all. I forget all about it, until I don’t, and then sometimes I dwell on things. I imagine unlocking hidden secrets about myself that can maybe only be released upon coming in to contact with others who have high percentages of shared DNA. I perked up in high school the most ever when we reached the nature vs. nurture conversations. But, I always found myself wondering how often the old-timey researchers and good ole doctors spent speaking to people who were actually brought up by people who loved them to bits, despite/or/in spite of (you decide) the child having erupted from the uterus of an unknown person. The whole thing can make me feel really untethered if I oblige. Then it simultaneously makes me think about all of the ways in which my parents showed me such deep love, while I’m certain experienced situations of having to “prove” their parental badges in our society, time and time again.

It’s really quite a challenge to write about, think about, question, feel emotions, or do anything really regarding the subject of adoption. Part of this is because it is very often tangled up with deep-seeded sentiments that other people around you hold. To address a subject as significant as a human being, for whatever their reason(s), no longer being in contact with, nor having legal protections over the person they either bore from their womb, or were entangled with said womb owner who bore the human child, is painful.

To even begin to explore these things in any meaningful way, I first as an adoptee, feel the almost overwhelming need to create value statements for my parents. This happens to me every single time this subject crosses my mind because I worry it will make me seem ungrateful, or like by asking questions, I’m somehow minimizing what my parents mean to me. But, seeing as how my fingers are telling my brain to keep going on this subject, I must state for the record, apparently, that B and C are my parents, that I love and appreciate them in both their roles as my parental units, and as the whole, entire, complicated individuals they both are…

Growing up, the only other known DNA connection I held, was with my older brother. As you may already know, he and I were raised up as siblings, yet were also biologically connected as cousins. I held on to this thread of connection tightly in my youth. I thought maybe one day it could help me unravel any sense of abandonment I felt from the humans my cells held the stories of inside of them. I did what I could to protect my older brother when we were young in the ways I knew how: by speaking up for both of us when he could not, by taking the literal stand in court during our numerous custody situations, and by raising my voice loud enough, that the cacophony of adults were drowned out and there was no choice but to hear my pleas. Alas, that is not what he wanted, nor in his defense, what he asked for from me. Unfortunately, my elder sibling and I reached an age and a subject matter that ultimately led to our ongoing estrangement. We have been two very different people, with wildly different wants and needs from the fucking jump. I wish I had understood that sooner, as I could have potentially saved our family a lot of pain.

I used to think my birth mother was maybe Madonna, or Drew Barrymore, or Alicia Silverstone until I was a teenager and did the birthday maths. I thought this was kind of funny, until I recently read about how common it was for adoptees to create entire fantasy lands. These internalized spaces include fantasy biological people, who are imagined to try and mitigate the endless loop of unknowns that exist in their lives.

I used to think that meeting my biological connections would help some things click together for me, that couldn’t be connected otherwise. Now that I’m older, I know that while medical history would be beneficial, people are all inherently different. That there is something very freeing about not being held back or down by generational genetic traumas. While an adoptees’ past may be unknown, it’s also possibly a great thing for it to remain a mystery. Until yesterday, I knew nothing of the term and idea of a Ghost Kingdom (side note I do not agree with everything Betty Jane Lifton has to say, but I do embrace her idea of the ghost kingdom). I’m realizing I have spent my life wandering this unknown city that held no name for me, until now.

I can count on one hand other kids I knew well throughout my childhood, who were also adoptees. This was a part of my identity I felt I was allowed to casually ask about now and again. But, I was ALWAYS so worried whenever I did bring it up, that I would inadvertently be making someone feel like their role in my life was less valuable, simply because I was curious about my origin. Now, my parents told my brother and I from as far back as I can remember that we were adopted. The act itself, how many days old we were, etc., and the ways in which they became our parents was never, ever hidden from us kids. We were invited to recognize it, but not to dwell on it, nor get in to any nitty gritty about the places we didn’t choose to leave behind.

While there have been moments in time where the pain from adoption is so acute, I cannot help but weep (looking at you fourth grade family tree genetics assignment), I have recently realized I’ve been wearing a solid pair of horse blinders about the subject. I am working with my therapist on allowing myself to recognize and allow entry of all emotions, even though it’s also come to my recent attention that I find it disgusting when I give myself space to hover over the wounds caused by adoption. We are taught by society, or well I was taught (can’t speak for others now can I?), to be above all so very grateful for the families we landed in, especially those that blanketed us with love. But, there is a sense of separation from myself regarding my adoption that I have ignored for forty whole years, like: abandonment, fear, insecurity, loss, grief, confusion, and each and every one of those unknown ghosts that have been floating around all wispy-like in my kingdom.

My wife and I have been a pair for twenty-four years, and she and our kid are the place I call home. She is possibly the one human being in this world who has seen the darkest, and most unhinged sides of me, and yet has never abandoned me as I sifted through the rubble of my big feelings. I am a whole human being alone, sure (and that is vital), but I feel balanced and joyous and like I am welcome to evolve in to future versions of me, with her. We are working together to raise our child to understand the many emotional gradations of life, and to know that there is space to feel all of the things, in real time.

What does life look like if we don’t stuff our internal pockets full of the feelings we’re made aware are unflattering to our societal disposition? I want to find out if I have the courage to live that way. There is no tidy closing sentence for this piece of writing, because it is a messy subject. I have found the complexity of the simplicity of love to be one of the most nuanced experiences of my life, adoption included. May we find the grace to help one another understand that our versions of home and history, are varied.