The Pendulum Swings – Adoption comes Full Circle

Tags

adoptee, adoption, celebrity, celebrity adoption, diary, DNA, family, international adoption, orphans, parents, public, roots, struggles

Hollywood Adoption: Photo found on yahoo.com

When I was adopted at the end of WWII, it was top secret. A stigma, at least in my adoptive parents’ circle, was attached to not being able to give birth to your own children. Adoption was considered a last resort. It was invisible. In large measure because of celebrity adoptions, nowadays adoption has gone public. It is seen as a viable way of forming a family. In sharp contrast to the era during which I was adopted, people who adopt children are more likely to be admired than spurned.

Celebrity adoptions have helped transform attitudes toward adoption. Magazines and newspapers feature photographs of movie stars holding adopted children. Often these little ones were adopted internationally.  Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, for example, have several children of their own and three from other countries (Cambodia, Ethiopia and Vietnam). Madonna’s tots are from Malawi. Sandra Bullock and Charlize Theron are recent Hollywood adoptive moms.

There are 145 million orphans in the world today, boys and girls who will have to grow up without the love and guidance of parents. Any situation which allows even one of these children to gain a family is a victory, a triumph, a cause for celebration. Celebrity adoptions call attention to the option, when a couple or single parent cannot or chooses not to have children in a traditional way, of “the adoption solution.”

In The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries, I relate that my birth father Giovanni was born in Italy and tell how it cut off I felt from my Italian-American heritage. Years after being adopted, I traveled to San Martino Sulla Marricino, Italy with my birthfather. I saw the house where he was born. I met aunts, uncles and cousins who welcomed me—the American cousin—with open arms. I was filled with joy at meeting people who were “blood relatives,” people with the same DNA. I felt very much at home and at the time wanted to live in that little Italian village forever.

How much was I hurt by not being in touch with my roots all along?

Join Elaine on alternate Mondays for reflections on adoption and sneak previews of her newest novel, The Hand of Ganesa.

Until I became a teenager, the answer is not very much. When, at about age 15 or 16, I pondered  the question of “nature versus nurture,” I was troubled by the lack of knowledge about my heritage. I felt disenfranchised (though at the time I would not have called it that). Despitethe fact that my new adoptive parents were loving and gave me every advantage, I felt deprived.  I had been cheated of “the back story.” I strongly urge adoptive parents to provide that “back story”: how he or she came to be adopted and as much as possible about the child’s original parents. Obviously, all of this should be presented truthfully but positively. It requires great care and sensitivity on the part of the parents.

The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries gives readers a case history of adoption’s effects and dramatizes my journey of recovery.  Through actual diary entries from the 1950s through the 1980s, it proves how awareness can provide the path to a healthy shift in attitude. The diaries give personal history a living voice in a way that remembrance never can.

Advertisement

My Diary is my Best Friend

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, best friend, blended families, diary, discover, empower, family, my story, national adoption month, separation, wounded

After being adopted by a college professor and his wife, I received a diary for Christmas. It was a gift that changed my life. Because my new family avoided discussing or even mentioning “adoption,” I felt that  I could be authentic only in my daily journal writing.

From the first five-year diary with a lock and key, 1950s style, to the blank books I fill today, I record exuberant or dismal thoughts,  poetic or melancholy reflections, and events both quotidian and dramatic. My happiest moments, the dark nights of my soul, commentary on family, the weather, current events —all of it is grist for the mill. Book after book, the diaries run like a turbulent river through my six decades.

Eight years ago I read through journals from my past and wrote a memoir about growing up adopted.

Who would ever read all these written chronicles after I was gone? Unable to answer that question, I appointed Elaine as reader. What my diaries said about me was that I really did not like myself. Throughout school years, I judged nearly everything that happened as not measuring up.

Some examples from 1956:

April 5—I felt sort of depressed and inferior at school today.

April 27—School dance. I had flowers on my headband and a pretty blue formal. The dance was a big disappointment. I had a miserable time.

May 26—Went to cheerleading practice. I’m not very good and I know I won’t be chosen.

In 1960, I wrote that February was a particularly low month. I was arguing with my parents and fighting bitterly with my brother.

In 1961, my situation had gone from bad to worse. An entry dated June 10: “Upsetting evening with the family. Because I failed to give a message to Daddy, my brother almost got lost or something and it was all my fault. Daddy couldn’t find him. Everyone got mad at me. Mother was furious—very enraged. What a horrible night. I hate family life.

Marriage seemed to offer an escape, so by 1966 I had become the wife of Jack, my college sweetheart. However, I took my unhappiness with me. As demonstrated in these entries from 1977, my sense of abandonment had intensified:

January 1—Jack stayed glued to TV football. Nothing the children or I did made a dent. He watched without pause from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. I felt very angry, helpless. And yet, I was too exhausted to pursue a constructive discussion.

January 5—I hate being alone in the house. I feel desperate when there is a blank wall of non-communication. I hate the feeling that I can bleed inwardly, that I can be melted by despair, and Jack doesn’t notice, doesn’t see, doesn’t care.

January 9—Jack and I had another non-conversation, very unproductive. I am filled with anger and despair. I would like to wake up single.

Three years later, I was single but with two young sons. What followed, as reported in more written chronicles, were more failed relationships. My unhappiness lay within; I was afraid the become close to a partner. My original mother’s departure taught me that if you love someone, he or she will leave you.

Fast forward to the 1990s,  some twenty years later. As I re-read my diaries, I realized that I had assured the failure of any prospective romances or partnerships. What the younger me taught the older me is to beware of assumptions. The idea that I could never be good enough tainted even the sweetest successes and accomplishments. In so many ways, I was my own worst enemy.

My negative interpretations so overwhelmed me that at last, I had to look them in the face, recognize them for what they were, and decide that I was not a robot. No one was making me think the self-depreciating thoughts.

—————

The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries depicts my journey from victim to heroine of my own life. It is a book that offers hope not only to adult adoptees trying to heal adoption-imposed injuries, but to parents who are dealing with the invisible wounds of their adopted children. It is the kind of book that would have helped me when I was growing up adopted. Since that book didn’t exist, I wrote it myself. 

Adoption is both a curse and a blessing. My memoir chronicles a journey from doubt to acceptance.

Adoption Wrapped in a Pretty Bow

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, blended families, Christmas, diary, discover, empower, family, friends, healing, Holidays, national adoption awareness month, national adoption month

Note from Elaine: I have two books coming out in 2016!: the “remodeled” Santa Fe on Foot and a suspense novel, All the Wrong Places. Because of current writing demands, therefore, my blogging has temporarily taken a back seat. Hope you enjoy this republished but timely message. Wishing all adoptees an especially fulfilling holiday!

For Adoptees, the holidays can be tough. Not only for young adopted children, but  also for adult adoptees. During Christmas and Hannukah season, we are supposed to be happy, filled with joy, relishing family reunions. Tis “the season to be jolly,” fa-la-la-la-la-ing” as we frantically strive to find the perfect gift for every last person on the list.

As described in my memoir, The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries, I was five when my birth mom relinquished me. For all of November—National Adoption Awareness Month—I’ve focussed on my own adoption. It’s been an awakening, and not always a happy one. Though striving mightily to make this a good holiday for my own grown children and their families, I suffer from an all too familiar ache of incompleteness. We adult adoptees can become “orphans” all over again.

I’ve lost all my parents, both biological and adoptive. My birth parents: They could not have raised me and my brother, and yet I would have liked to have known them earlier in life. When I finally met them, it was too late for us to really form a relationship. Those wonderful people, the mom and dad who raised me: I feel an even keener sense of emptiness at their deaths.

To better explain why the holidays present this adoptee with a sense of deprivation, allow me to quote from The Goodbye Baby:

***

ABOUT EDGAR

Whenever I think I have finally been healed from the wounds of adoption, life serves up a reminder that I am not. It is the opposite of “looking through rose-colored glasses.” When one looks through the glasses of being adopted, everyday events are reminders of loss, betrayal, or abandonment. Through reading all my diaries, I became very aware of the unremitting prevalence of “adoption bruises.”

Elaine’s tribute to her Adoptive Parents

There are metaphors I find helpful in understanding the wounds of my adoption, including disease and death at sea. When troubled by having grown up as an adopted child, I let insecurity and self-doubt take root. Reason eludes me. I have given that negative emotional state a name—Edgar. Like burning flames, Edgar is fueled by his own energy. Like fire, he feeds on everything, which he transforms into negative thoughts about my past, present, future. Edgar is a demonic artist who paints the world in stark tones of black and gray. Like a disease, Edgar undermines my physical well-being.  Edgar lurks, waiting to arise when I am feeling healthy and balanced. When my spirit starts to wane, he is poised for the kill.

Edgar is always keeping score. His message to me: To be considered worthy of living, I have to prove myself “good” every day. If I do not, I might, metaphorically speaking, be sent to an orphanage. Never mind that I lived in foster care for only the first few years of my life. No matter that I should be well over the feelings of abandonment from that difficult beginning.

Fire burns everything in its path. Self-destructive memories add to Edgar’s growing stockpile of ammunition. Edgar thrives on drama and misfortune, not just mine, but the world’s… Disappointment appears and then malaise sets in, a pervasive feeling of things being awry. My stomach feels queasy, my shoulders ache, and my limbs are leaden. Uh oh. Here’s Edgar, I think to myself.”

If only Christmas were a holiday one could celebrate quietly and thoughtfully, I would be happier. That is not going to happen, so I’ve taken responsibility for making this season rich and fulfilling.

Loss, want, privation and melancholy are NOT what I want to give myself for Christmas.

I am taking the holidays as a time to deepen and renew friendships. Every day I will focus on self-care, spending time in nature, drinking more water and beginning each day with a morning stretch and hug. As a friend recommended, I will stretch my arms and legs, sit up and notice that I am breathing. For three or four breaths, I will simply pay attention, breathing in and breathing out. I will give myself a hug, saying “Good morning, Elaine, thanks for taking a minute to just be. Let today be about learning to love—myself and others”

Acknowledging my adoption as a gift

Embracing my adoption is a way of nurturing myself. This year, the holidays will be different. After putting “Edgar” into an escape-proof cage, I will wrap my adoption insights in a beautiful gift box. Knowing and accepting my adopted self is the greatest gift. When I do this, I have more to give family and friends.

***

Some questions for my readers:

Why do you personally think Adopted children find it more difficult to enjoy the Holidays?

Do you remember struggling with your own Adoption when Christmas/Thanksgiving rolled around?

Do you ever remember your parents trying to help you deal with this?

What do the Holidays mean to you?

How do you reflect on your adoption during the Holidays?

Adopting an Attitude of Hope

Tags

adoptee, Adoption recovery, diary, empower, Gratitude, healing, struggles, wounded

“You see, you cannot draw lines and compartments, and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping-stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair.” – The Proofreader, a minor character in A Fine Balance

Rohintan Mistry, in his novel A Fine Balance, presents an epic tale that takes the reader from India’s independence in 1947 to the Emergency of the 1970s. It is one of the most absorbing (and heartbreaking) novels I’ve ever read; In many ways, the book’s characters and themes remind me that grappling with the invisible wounds of adoption is a life-long process.  It is one thing to recognize negative assumptions about being adopted and quite another to truly free oneself of their sting. In other words, the shackles may be gone but the scars remain.
Those of you who’ve followed my posts are familiar with the master-underminer I’ve named “Edgar,” that uninvited but ever-present demon of self-doubt who is always on the prowl for ways to squash ones spirit. It does little good to repeat the cliche “Look at the half full and not the half empty glass.” Edgar wants us to feel small, unworthy, and marginalized. After all, he harps, we were given away by our first parents, so obviously we were not good enough to keep.
This troublesome idea—”not good enough”— is one of Edgar’s favorite weapons. We, the adopted ones, may try to pretend that being adopted fades in importance. We did not choose to be raised by other than our original parents. A tangled web of emotions surround a child being separated from the first mother and father, transferred to an adoptive family or single parent. All of this happened before we had words or the maturity to understand. The emotions of others involved were implanted in us, even when we were in the womb. Add to that the feelings we had in our earliest years about the “transfer.” This history is Edgar’s playground.
Can we ever escape the ripple effect of adoption—the fears and fantasies, the doubts, assumptions and longing? We cannot. It it is folly to pretend otherwise. Therein lies the conundrum. The events happened. We need to acknowledge them but constantly transcend their draining effect.
My fireplace has been busy this winter.  I am burning the last journal pages that went into The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption. Even though “it” isn’t done with me, I’m done with the old wounded self-image. My diary-reading “archeological dig” revealed a deep pit of unresolved angst. Each day I strive to “take the best and leave the rest.”
Along with lesson number one is a more important thought: We have the freedom to choose hope over despair. Recently, my birthday brought home a reminder: We don’t have forever. In my remaining years on the planet, I’ve resolved to take a symbolic road to the bright side. Though it may be a fine balance, we always have a choice.

Stay tuned for more posts that offer an adoptee point of view.

Being Adopted Meant Being Rescued

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, blended families, diary, discover, empower, family, my story, national adoption month, New Mexico, orphans, parents, separation, struggles, wounded

Note to readers: My website was born a year ago this month, and this post was my first. I’m recovering from dental surgery—a bit under the weather— so rather than a Blog-less Monday, I decided to re-publish. Please forgive the redundancy!

A popular definition:

“Adoption offers a solution for children who, for whatever reason, cannot grow up with their biological parents. Adoption can be the answer for infertile parents.”

I was adopted at age five.

For me, being adopted was being rescued from a bad situation.

Me (Elaine) with my birth mother, Velma.

Born to an ill-matched couple during the final years of WWII, you might say I was a “Goodbye Baby.” My birth mother, abandoned by her sailor husband, was not capable of mothering two young children. She did what adult children have done in every era when there is no place else to go: she went back to live with her parents. From staying with her husband’s family in Massachusetts, she fled to her home state of Iowa. Her idea was to earn her teaching credentials and somehow make her own way in the world.

There was no day care back then. As much as my birth mother could not abide Giovanni Cecchini’s family, neither could she stand living with her austere German family. She enrolled in college and my brother and I were shuffled about, staying first with abusive “cousins” and then in foster care. When my future adoptive parents came along, my life changed for the better. Instead of being a burden, I was now a chosen daughter. I was born again!

The dreary past, however, stayed within me. In the years after WWII, there was much to get beyond. My adoptive parents mistakenly believed that if they didn’t talk about the abuse I’d suffered and the instability of my birth mother.

I would stop wondering about the past. The opposite happened. In lieu of facts, I invented. Why was I adopted and not one of the “real” children”? How could I find answers?

Enter my diaries: Personal journals, four decades of small books filled with written accounts of every day of my life from 1950-1980. I started reading about the past to learn how being adopted had become such an emotional burden, how it had become a dark shadow tainting my formative years. The journey took me to unexpected enlightenment.

Now my attitude toward adoption is far broader and more inclusive. I’m able to adopt a new attitude, to adopt the deer that come to my back yard every day to feed on apples fallen from my prolific backyard tree. Above all, I have literally “adopted” Elaine. I came to the same conclusion as Oscar Wilde: “Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”

Adopted or not, isn’t life’s journey about becoming oneself?

Fighting the Adoption Blues

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, depression, diary, discover, empower, friends, healing, separation, struggles, wounded, writing

When troubled by having grown up as an adopted child, I let insecurity and self-doubt take root. Reason eludes me. I have given that negative state a name—Edgar. Like burning flames, Edgar is fueled by his own energy. Like fire, he feeds on everything, which he transforms into negative thoughts about my past, present, future. Edgar is a demonic artist who paints the world in stark tones of black and gray. Like a disease, Edgar undermines my physical well-being. Edgar lurks, waiting to arise when I am feeling healthy and balance…he is poised for the kill.

From my memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption

Depression. I’ve battled with it for a lifetime, and no matter how much I try to avoid going down the “slippery slide,” it comes along with every perceived failure or dashed hope. It’s almost as though something within me has decided, “Elaine, the adoptee who was not good enough for her birthmother to keep, does not deserve to be happy.”

The reason I’ve labelled this emotional state “Edgar” and not just “depression” is that one of my literary heroes and spiritual leaders, the late Hugh Prather, called his own sadness and doubt “Edgar.” In lectures, of which I attended many, Prather would describe waking up each morning and finding that his nemesis, a depression he referred to as “Edgar,” was right there on the pillow, teeth bared and ready to gnaw away at heart and soul. Prather spoke of beating “Edgar” back into his cage and locking him up.

The metaphor that works for me is similar. I acknowledge the infuriating recurrence of Edgar. Rather than beating him with a club and sending him into a dungeon, however, I outrun him. I go outdoors for a walk or a hike, in the process usually re-setting my mind. The air cleanses and refreshes me. The movement feels

wonderful. More often than not, I forget about being miserable. It’s a powerful way to not only ward off whatever “Edgar”

might be bothering me, but also to burn calories. It’s almost like getting revenge.
To Edgar, I say “Thank you for sharing. Now let me get on with my life.”

Going for a Personal Best

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, blended families, diary, discover, empower, family, friends, healing, journal, marathons, my story, running, separation, wounded, writing

Coming to terms with my adoption has been like training for and running a marathon. WALK. JOG. RUN.

A little history…In the 1970s, I discovered running. I’d never been good at sports, but this was something I could do. Running was my escape, my self-medication, my therapy. As a member of the Santa Fe Striders, I participated in 6K runs, half marathons, fun runs, turkey trots, moonlight adventure runs and full marathons.

Truth be told, I was obsessed. Completing nine marathons in three years, I bettered my finishing time with each 26-mile race. This was before I came to terms with being adopted; perhaps it was a substitute for a face-to-face with my adoption and the self-examination that loomed ahead.

The parallels are as follows. First: WALKING. Exploring my past, I started out with baby steps. Second: JOGGING. I published my diaries in the form of a memoir, The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption. Finally, RUNNING. Thanks to the Internet, I engaged with the adoption community and decided to focus my writing on adoption-related topics.

My weekly blog posts will continue to spotlight adoption, adoptees, birth and adoptive parents. A novel ARUNDATI, available in installments on my website, is about an Indian orphan who is adopted by American parents. Coming to terms with my adoption is very much like being in a marathon, except that this 26.2-mile race will never end.

Life is a journey, especially when it comes to dealing with adoption. The experience of coming out with my diaries was training camp. At first I was afraid the contents would be so embarrassing that I would no longer have any friends. I thought that when people knew about what I’d grappled with all these years they would write me off as borderline strange.

The reaction has been the opposite. Even people who were not adopted or dealing with adoption have found The Goodbye Baby inspiring.

Because of a knee injury in 2006, my running days are over.  I now walk and hike instead. Though running was a long and uphill endeavor, all the hours and miles of training paid off. The end of every race brought a rewarding rush of adrenaline. The endorphins that people like to call “runner’s high” seemed to carry over into empowering me in everyday life.

Like training for a marathon, using social media to communicate with others in the adoption community has been empowering. Each week, I’ve added miles. Each posting deadline is like another road race. As in running, I’m continue to compete with myself. In writing, as in running, I am still going for a “personal best.”

Below, a verse that inspired me to reach a running goal (3-hour 35-minute marathon in 1979). I believe the words apply to life itself.

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” – Isaiah 40:3

What Does Adoption Month Mean To Me?

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, celebrity adoption, diary, discover, empower, family, healing, national adoption awareness month, national adoption month, New Mexico, reading, separation, wounded, writing

Let me count the ways… 

Ever since the publication of The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption— I am honoring the importance of November as National Adoption Month. This recognition feels positive, and the publication of my memoir is a way of bringing the month alive.

Elaine and her favorite baby.

My November focus on adoption has brought a seismic shift in attitude. Rather than something to hide, adoption is now a status to acknowledge, embrace, explore and celebrate. After years of playing down my growing up as an adoptee, I am now highlighting it. In the process, I have become aware of how many variations exist around the word “adoption.”

First of all, the adoption of a child is usually considered a positive action, bringing a young child from instability to security. From foster care (or no care at all) to a home with Mom and Dad, two Mommies or two Daddies or a single parent. It might be an aunt and uncle, grandparents or even neighbors who take in the orphaned or unwanted. But the point is that the child has a better chance in life with a parent or parents who choose to take on parenting.

I’m not saying that all adoptions are totally successful. Sometimes the child’s invisible injuries, feelings of abandonment, unanswered questions or feelings of inadequacy never heal. Still, there is hope.  I recently attended an adoption discussion group that included members from every part of the triad: birthparents, adoptees, and adoptive parents.  It seemed that participants were disappointed about failed communication, painful misunderstandings or less than wonderful reunions.

The Author with her favorite youngster

On the other hand, the mothers, fathers, sons and daughters in the meeting were supportive and understandingtoward one another. Stories were shared and support was abundant. The group members “adopted” each other and provided comfort.

Perhaps adoption is only as positive as the adoptee makes it. Personally, I’ve expanded my idea of adoption. When I awaken in the morning, I choose to adopt an “attitude of gratitude.” Most days, I walk for an hour or hike in the mountains, taking in the lovely northern New Mexico scenery. I find myself energized and inspired, having “adopted” nature around me.

When deer wander into the back yard to enjoy apples that have fallen from my beneficent tree, I symbolically “adopt” them. The two magnificent bucks I’ve named “Jake” and “Fred” were recently jousting, heads down, right outside my living room window. I never get over my surprise at these visitors from the forest. Could it be that they have “adopted” me rather than the other way around?

Jake, the deer who came to dinner.

What I have learned this November is that life is far richer than I thought possible. The adoption that happened to me at the beginning set my life in motion. For the first two thirds of that life, I suffered feelings of abandonment. As I’ve mentioned in previous essays, I finally decided to “adopt” myself. I shook off chains of the past and started to live in the present. It may sound overly dramatically, but it’s true.

A question for adoptees, adoptive parents and birth parents interested in a whole month dedicated to adoption: What are YOU learning from this focus? What are YOUR possibilities?

Telling It Like It Was

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, daughter, diary, discover, embarrassment, empower, essays, healing, journal, national adoption awareness month, national adoption month, separation, wounded

American singer Billy Joe Royal recorded “Tell it like It Is” in the 1980s. In The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption, I tell what it was like to grow up as an adopted person in the 1950s and the decades beyond.

The Goodbye Baby is unique in its focus. As in no other time, the repressiveness of that era made it an embarrassment to be “not the real daughter.” The contrast between outward facade and inner pain could be dramatized only by going back in time. Instead of just recalling my depression, I used daily journal entries—by the younger me—to dramatize the emotional hard times.

The book is framed in essays: about adoption-induced hangups, about my growing acknowledgement of that dark side of adoption, and finally about rising above the destructive part of my adopted self. The heart of my book comprises journal entries I penned from age 13 through my mid-40s.

While there are some excellent memoirs about growing up adopted, only The Goodbye Baby relies so thoroughly on written diaries to tell the story. You, dear reader, might call it “experimental nonfiction,” consider it crazy or daring, label it as eccentric or  egotistical, but utilizing selected diary entries was the only way I could deliver my message. And what, you ask, is the message? Basically this: that my life was my life, and the only way I could accept it was to stare it down. I reviewed my diaries to see where I’d been and to decide where I was going.

The diaries were not written for posterity. At the time, diary-writing was a powerful form of self-therapy. Little did I dream at the time that they would one day be published. Readers have given me feedback. I’ve been told that the diaries describe how they felt as teenagers, that the romantic relationships I describe could have been theirs. The emotions my diaries reveal are universal. As one reader pointed out, you don’t have to have been adopted to have an “Edgar” (my term for the monster of self-doubt that likes to rear it’s ugly head).   Friends who’ve finished my book say that once they started reading, they were riveted. They read through to the end, often staying up until two in the morning. I am amazed and gratified that one woman’s path to healing and wholeness can help others along their journeys.

Diaries from the past directed me to a better future.

There are risks in revealing ones diary entries. Possible embarrassment was at the top of the list. People mentioned in the diaries might be angry or resentful. Over time, I overcame my fear of these risks. I had been trying to write a book about my adoption for 23 years. Originally, my title was “Reunions,” and the book was to include accounts of meeting my original parents. As an adult, I met the “originals”—Velma and Giovanni—and, while valuable, the reunions were not comforting. At long last, I literally had to “adopt” myself.

My self-adoption was extremely beneficial. It was a powerful validation. In “harvesting my journals,” I could finally let the past be past. I could begin to live authentically. It is a wonderful thing, I learned, to be true to oneself.

Out of the Canyon

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, anger, celebrity adoption, daughter, diary, discover, empower, family, friends, healing, national adoption month, reading, separation, wounded, writing

View from the Kaibab Trail

Note from Elaine: Nearly three years after the original publication of this “recovery blog,” I find my adopted self dealing with the same issues but in a healthier way. For adoptees, the issues remain, but we learn that it’s how we deal with them that makes the difference.

***************************

Anger is a terrible thing. Unless one deals with it, the feeling can deepen into a Canyon of Despondency. It seems there is no bottom and that one can never escape this negative emotion.

Until I admitted that unresolved issues about adoption were the root of my unhappiness, I was doomed to be the victim of angry, hurtful emotions. Because I had wonderful adoptive parents, it was very hard to blame them for anything. I admired and respected them. Only after they were gone did I realize how much the shame and secrecy about adoption had drained my self-confidence.

Adoption adds so much to a child’s life: parents who chose him or her, security and stability, a room of one’s own.

View from the North Rim, Grand Canyon

 

But it also takes away: blood ties, growing up with someone who shares your DNA, parents who probably look like you. As a baby, you resided for nine months inside your mother’s womb; you were connected at a primal level.

The adoption that followed your birth also represents a LOSS.

During the long years I dwelled on the loss of connection with my birthparents, I wandered a bottomless pit of unhappiness. I could never resolve my feelings of deprivation. I’d been part of my birthmother. I spent the first few years of my life with her. Didn’t that bond us forever?

When I was adopted at age five, which I describe in my memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption, I did not ask questions. Instead, I grew up longing to know where I came from, why I was relinquished. I desperately needed to parse out what part of me was nature and what was nurture.

To articulate my anger would have seemed ungrateful; Depressed and resentful, I was a wild and uncontrolled adolescent. Re-reading diary entries about my teenage escapades, I pitied my adoptive parents. The diaries revealed an unflattering truth. They showed how slow-burning rage drove me to recklessness, to throwing myself into dangerous situations. All the outward successes—good grades, a nice appearance, friends and a social life—were a facade. I felt I had no value, which deepened my sense of loss.

As I entered adulthood, I began to realize that my outlook on life had developed around a perceived loss. Never mind that I had wonderful adoptive parents. I pay tribute to them in From Calcutta with Love: the WWII Letters of Richard and Reva Beard. However, they either could not or would not talk about what happened. I had to accept their philosophy, that I began life as the “born again daughter.”

Out of the canyon into the light .

Anger, unchecked, tends to grow.  At least, in my case, this was true. It intensified over time. Before I looked back at the past revealed in diary entries of The Goodbye Baby, I wandered the canyons of despair.  I had to climb my way out to release my anger. For me the path was, and still is, writing. Spend time with your inner self to discover who you really are. Dig deep and then ascend. YOU are worth it!