All names have been changed to keep this blog as anonymous as possible.
While driving away from my boyfriend’s father’s house, I had one of my random thoughts…
… I have always dated men with close-knit families …
First I’ll mention Harvey…
Harvey works alongside his brother and mother. His mother lives and cares for her mother and father. His oldest sister and mother play on a pool league together, and his other sister visits at least once a week for lunch. His father was celebrating father’s day by playing euchre with his sister, which is a common evening pastime.
Before Harvey, there was Victor…
Victor lived on and off with his mother. His mother had weekly, if not more frequent, dinner and lunch dates with his sisters. We often went for drinks with his sisters, and his nieces and nephews grew up with him as a brother.
Even Robert…
He also lived with his mother. His mother had a traditional catholic family with a million brothers and sisters and a million more nieces and nephews. His family came together for holidays, emergencies, birthdays, school events, sports games… any reason was reason enough to get together.
This random thought came to me as we left Harvey’s father and aunt playing euchre to go to the movies with Harvey’s mother and brother.
I recall thinking to myself, I wish I had relationships like this. I wish I had weekly card nights with my sister and her husband. I even wish I had friends that I could call over for nights of fun card games or to share a bottle of wine. I wish I had that familial support, to be able to confide in them, or seek life advice, without needing Hallmark Holiday…
While thinking more on the subject, I can tell you that their mother’s have been strong women, independent, and often the ones raising them the majority of their lives… I suppose this is the nurture side.
I suppose there is no coincidence in the fact that their fathers have been less involved, either by their own choice of the choice of their mothers. I mention this because it points to a nature side of my partners. The father’s have often been removed from their lives due to adultery. My relationships are often ended the same way. And, with Harvey as the exception, the father’s are usually nothing more than a passing thought on days like today, Father’s Day.
So why do I mention this?
My mother lives 1,400 miles away…
…My father lives 140 miles away…
…My sister lives 14 miles away…
And I see and talk to each of them with, roughly, the same frequency… not often.
I don’t have a close-knit family. Relatives are only seen or spoken to on holidays or family emergencies.
I envy the relationships my partner’s have with their families. Even my closest friends have these relationships…
Perhaps it’s me. Perhaps I am an anomaly. Perhaps what I consider a close-knit family is just a family, and mine is the outlier…
… These random thinkings really give me something to think about…
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, lately, about the phrase happily ever after…
And they lived happily ever after.
Maybe it’s because this past Saturday I attended my boyfriend’s brothers wedding. And perhaps it’s also because I’ve been made to think of my own happily ever after. Dating the best man and brother of the groom gives warrants for those kinds of questions. So rightfully, I ponder.
I ponder because this phrase seems to have become an expectation from people. Like there is some underlying dream, like the “American Dream”, that if you meet the right person, follow the right steps in life, and everything goes according to some fairy tale plan, that a happily ever after can be earned. I’m sure some people even consider this something that can be bought. However, I don’t think it’s earned, bought, or even stumbled upon by fate or luck or random happenstance. I think happily ever after lives in the state of mind, and nowhere else.
As someone who suffers from depression, happy doesn’t just happen. I assume that this is actually the case for everyone. Happiness is a state of mind. It’s a chemical cocktail. It’s a sunny day, hitting all the green lights, being surprised with a clean house. And even though I know there are chemical triggers, I still believe that much of our emotional states are by choice. With that being said, I’m not denying the validity of chemical imbalances causing chronic or severe depression. My only experience is mine, and I’ve been able to fight against depression and win. Maybe not every day, but overall, I win.
I mention this because I haven’t taken the right steps. I don’t have the money to buy a happily ever after. And on occasion, I battle with depression and lose to a gripping feeling that my life is miserable and final. So my only chance at a happily ever after is that one day, when my time comes, I’ll be able to look back on my life and count my blessings. Because in the end, all I have control over is my outlook on my own life. It’s not to be measured in things, or children, or years. It’s not richly ever after. It’s not married ever after. Or with children ever after. The only measure of happily ever after I need at the end of this life is happy, because that’s the phrase, and only I can measure my happiness.
This is me swallowing my pride and asking for the love of this community to help share, post, and blog this link. Anything helps, and there is no end date. However, monetary or not, I accept all support and encouragement, including prayers!
Thanks!
PS I’m the little nugget and that was my first look at my big sister!
To begin with, spring isn’t usually a great time for me. I was raped and I had an abortion against my will, both in the spring. These events have haunted me for years. A malicious depression usually overcomes me during the spring, regardless of the precautions I take. I’ve learned to cope with this malaise recently, however it is always there… always.
However this spring… this spring is different.
This spring I found my birth mother. This spring I’ve made contact with my birth mother. This spring I also developed a different and new relationship with my adopted mother. Both are equally surprising.
I’ve mentioned it before, that my mother and I don’t have the best relationship. It is a strange thing now, with the discovery of my birth mother, that my adopted mother and I can bond over it. I would say that my birth mother isn’t entirely responsible, but in the end, she is. Without her love, I would have never been adopted, never had an adopted mother, and would have never been able to reconnect with her.
Although I also might not have been so estranged to being with…
… But we can’t go back now, can we?
Well, let’s recap…
At the beginning of the year, I changed. I was regressing to old behaviors. I was sabotaging my relationship because I was unhappy. To ruin my relationship for fretting the small stuff, I was a fool. I was such a fool that I couldn’t even confront my boyfriend about it. And when it all surfaced, I was sure it was over. But to my surprise, we fought and fought through it. It was then that I changed. I’m confronting him when I’m unhappy, and overall learning to speak up for myself, which is completely new to me.
I am also learning to put myself and my needs first. This is something I’ve also never done before. It’s strange, but it’s more fulfilling than I’ve ever imagined. The biggest proof of this is searching for my birth mother… and finding her. It is something I’ve always thought about and always wanted to do, and now it’s something I’m doing. I’ve even put my pride aside, and have started a CrowdRise event to help raise the money needed to go and visit Seoul and meet my birth mother.
I was even able to tell my adopted mother, without hesitations or fear, that I found my birth mother. I know I mentioned this in a previous post, my hesitations and fear. And up to the moment I told her, I was anxious, avoiding the topic altogether. But then she asked how my search was progressing, and a pure smile broke across my face. My heart started racing and I knew I couldn’t avoid the topic… so I told her. We sat on a bench, smoked our cigarettes, and cried tears of joy and excitement, together. It was refreshing, and much needed to help solidify our new relationship.
Onward…
So it’s been a strange spring. A strange year in fact.
And it’s strange, because this is where my life starts. It feels like a rebirth. I feel new. I don’t feel the spring malaise. I’m not plagued by flashbacks and nightmares of the ghosts that haunt me. I don’t break down when I think of them, and it’s a sign of healing. I never used to believe that time heals all wounds. I still don’t. But love can conquer all. My boyfriend’s love for me. My adopted mother’s love for me. And all of it possible because of my birth mother’s love for me.
I told you it’s a love story. Although it’s it strange?
Yesterday, I used my anonymity here to share with the world the news that the adoption agency found my birth mother. I delighted in telling no one personally, yet everyone anonymously, that she will be writing me a letter in return to mine. Every second that ticked by, between the moments I learned of this news until now, filled my soul with a happiness it has never known before.
And now, I sit here, wallowing in this joy.
I fear telling my adopted mother that the search is over, but I can’t pinpoint why. When I originally told her of my desires, she was supportive. Then when I told her the search had already begun, she was pessimistic. Now, I fear if I tell her the search was successful and already complete, she will be… what will she be?
… Let me start over …
My adopted mother and I have a very estranged relationship. When I was younger, I never bonded with her in the sense that a child bonds with her mother. There was a lot of fighting in my household. My parents’ marriage showed signs of divorce. My sister didn’t appreciate a new baby sister. And somewhere in my nature, I became the middle child. I was the youngest of course, until my little brother was born from my dad’s second marriage some years later. But even as the youngest, I acted more as a middle child: cooperative, flexible, sympathetic.
After my parents finalized the divorce, the middle child in me grew rebellious, as many children of divorcees do. My parents paid more attention to their new divorced lives and my sister to her beaus. With little attention left for me, I began to sneak out of the house at night, meet up with boys from the trailer park, and smoke Marlboro Light 100’s that I’d steal from my mother’s purse. I continued this behavior until they caught me… and then I continued some more.
My actions as a young adult caused much undue stress to my newly divorced parents. I took time away from my mother that she would have rather spent with her new suitors. I took time away from my father that he would have rather spent drinking and hating my mother. And slowly, the relationship between my parents and I dwindled into distrust and begrudging.
Over the next decade and a half my father and I would be able to rebuild our relationship. Although it is not the conventional, calling once a week on Sundays, or visiting over holidays, we still have an understanding that there is love between us. My mother and I, on the other hand, have not quite been able to rebuild the years of ill spoken words, hateful messages, and scarring actions.
… Let’s return …
I suppose I feel guilt. I know that my mother and I have not had a strong relationship. She pretends, to me, that things are better and mended. She visits once a year and we talk even less. When she visits we go shopping, and it always feels like she’s trying to buy my love… like she can fill the broken cracks in that part of my heart for her with trinkets and outfits and shoes. And that makes me angry.
So I suppose I feel angry.
I know that she can’t go back and change the things that happened between us in the past. I struggled to come to terms with my past and our past. I found a way to forgive her actions in my heart. Yet still, she tries to make amends. And I sense that she sees this search as my attempt to displace her as my mother, like a usurper to a throne.
Perhaps it is…
…Does that make me vengeful?
It is a petty idea, that one daughter can only have one mother. Being adopted makes that idea not only petty but ignorant. I suppose it is vengeful of me to try and make my adopted mother hurt now for all the years of misery she caused me in the past. And I suppose I have never truly mended. And I suppose that this is why I don’t wish to tell her that the search is over and the news is in my favor. Perhaps I do wish to see her hurt, in some way.
And this makes me feel guilty.
The person I try to be is an embodiment of love. That gives me no right to hurt my mother. She raised me, and perhaps she did it to the best of her ability. Even at that, she loves me. And I have no right, as her daughter, to wish her hurt or pain. I don’t wish her hurt or pain.
And this is what I truly fear…
I do not want her to hurt from this news. I do love my mother. I do have room in my heart for two mothers. I don’t even know what my birth mother will write to me. And still, my adopted mother will be delighted for me, that something I so desired has come to fruition. And if she is hurt by this, I will comfort her in knowing that she will always be my mother…
So I guess it’s final. I will tell my mother this afternoon. I will not tell her out of guilt, or vengeance, or anger. I will tell her out of my own joy and happiness…
On May 10th, 2015, at approximately 4 am, I finalized my search for my birth mother.
Today is June 2nd, 2015. The e-mail was sent at 9:51 this morning. I received it at 3:41 this afternoon.
It was a strange morning. I rarely check my e-mail as I wake up. I rarely check my e-mail at all, only if I’m expecting something, and I wasn’t expecting this.
I have some GOOD NEWS!!
Good news indeed. As each word registered, I pulled myself up to a sitting position. My eyes awoke, becoming more alert. I reached the bottom of the message, and started from the top again. I carefully read each word, rereading sentences that were unclear, and forcing myself to take my time, lest I skip a crucial word and misinterpret the whole thing.
Her birth mother contacted us today!!!!!!
… I’m left speechless… Save for the shouting I did to wake my boyfriend and tell him the GOOD NEWS!! She’s alive… She’s alive and she has contacted them, and they are contacting me. This feels so surreal. This must be a dream, but I was awake. My boyfriend was awoken. This was not a dream.
Her birth mother told me that she will write letter.
She’s going to write me a letter now?! She’s alive, and she’s going to write me a letter. She wants to say something to me. The anticipation of this letter will plague my existence until the day it arrives. I don’t even know how long it will take for the letter to arrive. It took me almost a month to write my mother my letter. It all came out at once, but in my head, scattered about, were mounds of crumpled up pages with half a letter here, and another half there.
Before this sentence, I could only think of the words as I read them and recited them. Now, my head filled with questions about what comes next.
Can I write back again?
What will she say to me?
How long will this take?
Will she send me a picture of her?
Is she happy?
What’s her husband like?
….
…Calm down…
I spent the last three and a half weeks preparing for a year long wait. I braced myself for the harshest of news. I built a stronghold around my heart so it could not break under any circumstances… and now she wants to write me a letter. A whole new journey has opened up for me. And as I say to my friends, It’s good to have goals.
…
I could not have hoped for a better outcome, and to receive it today, after such an anxiety and self-hatred riddled yesterday, it is a blessing. It was a sign. I made selfish decisions for my own mental health, and did not feel guilty about them. My heart prayed today without solid words or thoughts, but it was prayer nonetheless. I cried with joy, in sobs that wrinkled my face and smoothed my soul. Today was a blessing.
My future on this journey is uncertain. And for my readers, if you are going through this as well, you are not alone. Your family and friends may find it hard to understand. You may know other adoptees who do not know your thirst for answers, knowledge, or understanding. This is not a journey for anyone other than yourself, so do not keep their judgments with you. You know what you are searching for, even if you can’t name it. You feel what your heart feels, outside of words and expression. And it is confusing. This is a difficult journey…
I hate that phrase. I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to eat. I don’t have to pay my bills. I don’t have to work, or work hard at that. I don’t have to be skinny. I don’t have to be smart. I don’t have to try. I don’t have to stand up for myself. I don’t…
… I don’t have to do anything except those automatic bodily reflexes that I have limited to no control over. So I don’t have to do anything. Hear that?! I don’t have to do (nearly) a damn thing.
I could shout this from a roof top. I could hijack all the digital signs, billboards, banners, and channels in the world to display this for all. But it wouldn’t change the fact that I hear this phrase on a regular basis. Maybe that’s because I go against the grain. Or perhaps it’s the fact that I have a powerfully sensitive disposition, unlike most of the people I find in my company. Although, if I was a gambling girl (which I am) I’d say it’s because people are too busy judging the actions of others and less occupied with their own.
I say this now, because for the first time, in a long while, I stood up for myself, and that’s saying something. As the least confrontational person I know, this is out of my comfort zone, and it was not rewarding. It has led to an anxiety attack, a point on my work record for leaving early, and a smaller paycheck (just in time for rent). And all of this because I have to cover a certain position at my workplace… I have to be a shift lead to a shift that is not my own, that doesn’t accept me as their own… I have to hold my head up high and return to the position a second day, even though it brought me to shaking with tears the first three hours…
Excuse my language, but the only thing I have to do is say “fuck that”.
I’m saying this now because I’m tired of hearing it. I’m tired of people telling me what I have to do. I’m sorry if you weren’t aware, but you do not know what’s best for me. You do not know the path that I’ve walked. You do not know the struggles I’ve faced. And as someone surviving everyday with anxiety, and most days depression, you do not know the pain and heartache that I can inflict on myself. So don’t tell me what I have to do.
Stop.
Take a look at your own actions and words. Think about what you have to do. Think about what we all have to do. Be kinder. Love more. Laugh more. Share with friends. Share with strangers. Accept others (warts and all). Celebrate differences. Bond over similarities. Be creative. But what I think is most important, is stop trying to live the life of others.
The Life of an Asian 