The Face of Family

First Family Photo

It’s been over a month since I sent my first reply to my birth mother.  It seemed to only take a week for her to

respond to my initial letter.  In fact, I received two letters within a week of learning that she was indeed alive and wishing to share correspondence.  This is where the anxiety strikes.

In my last reply I sent three pictures of myself, two that were taken recently, within weeks of sending the letter, and a third picture, my first family picture.

I know that the process to correspond with my birth mother is a long and tedious one.  Two steps of translation are involved, not including the time it takes to read and respond.  I understand that we both have lives outside of writing each other.  I even took a whole week in responding to her initial letters.  However, I fear that the delay is less in these steps and more in my own appearances.

Allow me to explain…

I’ve always feared that instead of looking like my birth mother that I look like my birth father.  This doesn’t seem like a big deal to most, however, I feel like I am unlike most.  I don’t have the exact details, and honestly I’m glad I don’t.  All I know is that my file contains a brief paragraph of my birth father and conception:

As you can see, I am a product of unwilling relations.  Now, this could be the story my birth mother told the adoption agency, or her parents.  However, I can only go off of this paragraph, and that one sentence, when considering my conception.

This leads to the anxiety and depression I’ve been feeling, awaiting a response.

What if I look like him?  What if she glanced at the photos and went into shock?  What if I’m the visual reincarnation of my rapist father?  If I were in her shoes, I doubt I’d be able to write back, or at least write back quickly.  As myself, I’d almost rather not know if I looked like him too.  I hope to eventually find out that this is all just my imagination.  I hope that she writes back and tells me how beautiful I am, and how she sees so many similarities.

I understand that realistically, I will look like a mixture of the both of them.  I understand that I might have her nose and his eyes.  But honestly, I prefer to imagine that I am her clone; that there are traces of her mother and her father in my appearances, and not a single cell of him.  But that’s unrealistic… terribly, terribly, horribly, unrealistic.

Now I’m in limbo…

I’m in this weird limbo of wanting her to write me back and tell me how lovely I am and how proud she is of the woman I’ve become.  I want her to send pictures of herself and her children so I can see the similarities for myself.

And I don’t.

I don’t want to see the difference.  I don’t want her to say that although we share few similarities, I’m a lovely woman.  I don’t want to see how her children look like her and her husband, while my face would stand out as the foreigner who doesn’t belong…

But I am a foreigner…

I told myself in the beginning of this journey, and I said it in my initial letter to her, that I am not looking for a new family to fit in with.  I’m simply seeking answers to questions I cannot find words for.  And I’m not looking for a family to fit in with, I know that is, again, unrealistic.  And perhaps this is one of those questions I don’t have words for.  A, who do I look like?, conundrum.

So, alas, I am here…

I am here, waiting.  Waiting for a reply to calm or confirm my worries.  I was generous in allowing this past month.  I even double checked with my contact at the adoption agency here in America.  She has not heard anything yet, and will send any correspondence along as soon as it is received.

*Swallows Pride*

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!

https://www.crowdrise.com/meetingmybirthmother/fundraiser/GabrielleB

Strange: Part II

It’s been a strange spring.

Very strange indeed…

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?

Guilty

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…

And we will celebrate…

GOOD NEWS!!

On May 10^th, 2015, at approximately 4 am, I finalized my search for my birth mother.

Today is June 2^nd, 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…

… Just know, you’re not alone.

Strange

It was a strange feeling writing to a woman I’d never met before.  The experience made even stranger by the fact that she was my mother and it was Mother’s Day.  In one and a half pages I was to introduce myself to my biological mother, explain why I would like to meet her and what I would hope to gain from such a meeting, and what I would like to know about her.  All of this in one and a half pages.

I could have written page after page detailing every nuance of my being, but the limits are set for translation purposes.  I can’t imagine having the job of translating the same types of letters day in and day out.  Even if for a meaningful purpose, the translators must also understand the risk that these letters may never be read by the intended recipient.  So why try to force someone to translate millions of questions and millions of adjectives for someone who is essentially a ghost?  My mother may be dead.  My mother may also be alive.  They are both likely scenarios.  It would be a shame to waste my time, and the time of a translator, writing an overwhelming letter to a woman who may never receive it.  That must be the strangest part of all, writing to a ghost.

I wrote one and a half pages to a ghost.  And until I receive a reply, a ghost she will remain.  It feels silly to assume she’s alive, and sillier still to assume she would jump at the chance to know me.  I am still in the beginning of an enduring journey.  Hell, this was just the first step.  I may have many months of waiting ahead of me.  Starting the journey with a fool’s hope of a quick search resulting in my mother being found alive and her excitement and enthusiasm at knowing her daughter sounds like a recipe for heartbreak.

I ended my one and a half page letter with a finite ending.  I want my mother to know so much about the daughter she brought in to this world.  I want her to know who I am and why I am.  But I don’t want her to know any of that, if she does not want to.  So I ended my letter as such:

If you do not wish to communicate with me there are just a few main things I want you to know.  I am happy.  It may not be every day, but deep down I am happy.  I am loved, by friends and family, whether I feel like I belong or not, I am always, always loved.  I am a strong woman and I owe so much of it to you.  The moment you loved me enough to give me life, and sacrifice our future so that I could have a better future, has endured in me and will continue to for the rest of my life.  Although I don’t know your name, or the sound of your voice, I’ll always love you.

I guess that is really the strangest part of it all.  Not that I wrote this letter to a mother I have never met, or that her existence has to remain in limbo between dead and alive, or that it was ironically penned on Mother’s Day.  The strangest part of it all is realizing that I love this woman, this stranger, with so much more of my heart and soul than I will ever be able to describe.  The love she had for me from the moment I came into existence is who I have become.  It is who I aim to be.  It is who I have always been.

So I guess, mom, the only thing I really want you to know is this:  Because of you, I am exactly what I have always wanted to be.  I am love.