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.

Happily Ever After

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.

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?

Excusing Ourselves

A few nights ago, I found myself sitting in my friend’s bed.  The room was dark and smelled of Marlboro’s.  The soft green glow from the alarm clock illuminated only the scattered tissues outlining her body.  My arm stretched out and softly touched her skin; she began to sob.  They had their first fight.  He finally fought back.  He yelled and screamed and stormed out in a huff.  “I can’t sleep without him next to me,” she whimpered.

Why was she so sad?  Why couldn’t she sleep without him in the bed?  What was the real issue?

I contemplated these questions for a moment.  This is my best friend we are talking about here.  My goal in life is to help my friends find and keep happiness in their hearts.  But her heart is so sad.  So I brought my own cigarette to my lips, thinking of how to help her find peace in her heart.  And then it came to me.  It’s not him.  It’s not sleeping.  And it’s not the depression.  At least it’s not entirely the depression.  She’s using her depression as an excuse to keep from changing, to keep from being happy.

It seems that she’s not the only one.  “I am depressed; therefore I will never be happy.”  We are all doing this.  Perhaps, not as explicitly as that, but how many times have you thought, “This is just who I am?”

Think about it for a minute.  Think about it for two minutes if you must

Whether we say depression keeps us from being happy, or bad knees keeps us from losing weight, we are hiding behind our manila medical files.   I am guilty of justifying my flaws this way.  My friend is guilty.  My hunch is you are guilty too.  And that’s okay, nobody is perfect.  But we can’t keep holding ourselves back from becoming happier or healthier.  We can’t fear change.  We can’t fear the struggle.  We can’t fear letting ourselves down because by not trying we are letting ourselves down.

If you aren’t happy, change something.  Change the route you take to work every morning.  Change the set-up of your desk, or room.  Change what you eat. The side of the bed you sleep on.  The way you part your hair.  The way you greet strangers.  Hell!  Smile at a stranger!  Do something out of your comfort zone.  Do something new.  Live, because this might be your only chance to make yourself happy.

I challenged my friend to change something.  She got a haircut.  It looks great.  Next time we’re going to do something we’ve never done before.  Those are the times I see her smile the most.  It isn’t the feeling of an empty bed.  It isn’t the fact that he yelled at her and stormed off.  She isn’t happy in her heart, and he gives her some moments of happiness.  Understanding that this is not his responsibility was easy; bearing that role will take time (and change).

She lit up one more cigarette before saying goodnight.  I rubbed her shoulder, and we threw the tissues to the floor next to the bed.

When you break the monotony of being an adult and shake the dust off your carefree clothes, you are truly in control of your life.  You choose what you are doing.  You choose what you eat.  You choose your friends.

You might not be choosing to be unhappy, but you are choosing to stay that way.  Next time depression grips you, get up and go for a walk.  Change the channel.  Change the radio station.  Change your clothes.  Get naked if it’s the right place.  Just don’t grow stale in your skin.  There is nothing worse than a life given to discontent.