Being Adopted Meant Being Rescued

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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?

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Fighting the Adoption Blues

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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

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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?

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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

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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

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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!