Stories from Adoptees

I have two moms. Is it wrong to wish i had a dad?

i'm 17 and female.... i love my two lesbian moms of course, but sometimes when i see a little girl with her daddy, i get jealous, or i get emotional. i'm adopted too by the way. i've never met my dad, actually, for all i know he's dead. i don't know if this is related to not having a father figure, but i get very quickly attached to guys around 30 years old- for example the guy at my church who is married- i went through this whole passed summer being practically obsessed with him. my one friend saw it as just a crush, but i truly believed that i loved him and wanted to be with him. i never told him, because i'm not a psycho who tries to steal people's husbands, but this feeling was so strong when we were near each other. we got pretty close, but not in a sexual way, but close enough that he would touch my shoulders or whatever when he was saying hi from behind me. and i would always take advantage of our hugs and try to draw them out a bit... i hope he never noticed! i feel so guilty about wishing i had a dad. i wonder alot what it would be like and it does bother me a little bit when i see a little girl with her loving father. any advice? also, do you think me not having a dad has anything to do with me going crazy over this married guy who was and still is so super nice and caring towards me?

Date submitted: March 28, 2015

Biological Father Unknown

I am a 52 year old woman and i have a twin sister. I was raised by a an amazing woman who gave me unconditional love. My twin sister and I had an older sister who passed away when she was 16 years old. All three of us adored our mother and shared the same father. My mother had us out of wedlock - she told my twin sister and I when we were 15 years old. I begged her for years to share any information but she would not. Unfortunately she passed away last year and I know nothing of my biological father. Even now i believe that that his last name is phony. I would like to find out my biological father's genetic background. I believe that he is dead - but the information i seek would be helpful.

Date submitted: May 27, 2014

Adoptee v Donor Child

I was adopted when I was 2 months old and always knew from an early age I was adopted, even though I probably did not understand what it meant. I had a really good up bringing and adopted parents who loved me. I also had unrelated adopted brothers, but we were a family. People would say I looked like my siblings and parents.

I am now looking to go through donor egg treatment myself. This will be abroad so there will no trace of the donor.

I myself have searched for my birth parents with no success. I have very little to go on, but happy not to spend my life searching, for something I may never find and if I do, how would I be accepted?

Can I ask donor children who feel so strongly about there biological background, why do they feel so. I was adopted, a process that happens every day, but do not know my birth parents. Is there so much of a difference?

Date submitted: April 20, 2014

Getting a Life

Out of the farmland, black and peaty
Among the cows, and rough grass-tufts.
A woman left her home to find
A different life in a new land.
In the city where nobody knew her
Free, alone and unrestrained,
Catherine, daughter of Edward found
Her place in tiny bedsit comfort.
Making few friends for she found peace
In metropolitan solitude.
She stayed inside her room and read
Stories of life as it might be
A husband, children, dog and home
That dream of nowhere else to go.

Tall and dark, he entered her room.
The dream was made real, inside her growing
But No! This landing was not safe,
Too many footsteps, other rooms.
The child inside her belly fed
And willed its own growth, struggling.
Ignoring it she went about
Her business, working, existing,
Eating for both, resentful-feeling
Growing, growing, ever feeding
It sucked dry her dreams and choices
Leaving only the withering toil.

Large in belly, hidden under clothes
The shame was real and nobody saw
Though maybe manners played their part.
Her body denied it, ever growing
Refusing to accept her choice that evening
Her will rose up, to own her life.
Still, as she grew she felt the judgement
The guilt and shame swelled within
She ached to get it over and done
The child's father tried to assist
She hated him for causing this harm
Denied him any place at all
In her life or that of his child
He could not know the shame he caused
She would not change her life for this

The time came near and still she hid
From family and those she knew.
She worked until the week before
The aching in her belly burgeoned
With her denial, unwelcome guest,
Until she could no more deny
The life, the will, emerging soon.
For six weeks she kept her child
In convent walls , a harsh reminder
Of the shame. She signed the papers.
Gave him away. Free from consequence
of that choice, she returned to life
As though he never had existed.

Date submitted: January 06, 2013

What my mother told me

My natural mother was a beautiful 'oriental looking' woman (as the social worker described her), with a natural flip of hair, who left me at the hospital. She told me that a friend of hers had asked to take me, but she said "no." Another friend, a doctor (not my father), asked her to marry him. "No. I didn't have those feelings for him." The doctors who treated her while she was pregnant told her to 'keep the baby.' She always said, 'no.' She said that she didn't want to be poor.

When I met her, she also said, "I wish you found me earlier, when I might have been able to do something."

She left me but hearing her voice is relaxing to me. I love talking with her...even being near her.

Date submitted: February 07, 2011

Desperate for Child

When I was very small my mother told me my dad was not my biological dad. He did adopt me when I was two and has been the only dad I know. I don't remember how she told me but it was always in the back of my mind. When I was 12 or 13 I wanted to know who my biological father was, I referred to him as "the sperm donor". I really don't recall much of what my mother told me but I began to be a very difficult child.

When I was little I was very close to my dad but when I learned that he was not my biological father I was very hurt. I learned later from my mother that I would always tell her that I didn't think my dad loved me. He did love me but I think he was also hurting for me. My mother told him that I was not his biological daughter and he had no right to disclipline me. This was a huge problem especially when I got older because I longed for that relationship with my dad. I resented my mother for this.

My mother was on her second marriage and already had two kids from her first marriage. She wanted another child and her second husband could not have children. He told her to go ahead and go find someone to make a baby with. How could a husband tell his wife to go out and do such a thing. To this day I can't understand why.

My mother found a man about 10 years younger than her that she worked with to hang out with. He was also married with children. He was in it for the fun and my mother was in it to have another child. She says she told him this from the very beginning. His only concern was would she ask for child support. She promised him no. Through this arrangement I was conceived. His wife didn't know anything about the relationship he had with my mother or that she had gotten pregnant.

I was born and brought in under my mother's second husband's last name. I think my mother said that the sperm donor saw me once when I was born. After a short time my mother divorced her second husband and met my dad. They did marry and as I said he adopted me. They are still together today and very much in love. I am glad for this. When I became an adult my mother told me that dad always told her if they ever got a divorce he would fight for custody. I think dad felt mother was wrong for not allowing him to partake in my up bringing as a parent should. By rights he was and is my only dad.

For a long time I felt dirty and unloved. I couldn't understand how my mother could bring a child in to this world like that. I resented her decision and have treated her poorly.

I now realize that my mother wanted me and planned for me just not in the best way. We are working on our relationship and I have since become a christian and through the Lord I am healing.

I did meet the sperm donor when I was 18 years old and it was a big disappointment. He was a drunk and lived a crazy life. Shortly after meeting him he up and moved and didn't tell me. Then a few years later I sent a Christmas card to the sperm donor's mother and she returned my card with his obituary. It was quite devastating.

I am now 33 and beginning to learn to love my mother and forgive those who have hurt me. We have a long way to go but I can accept that I am loved and was not a mistake.

Date submitted: February 06, 2011

They said it was the best placement they'd ever had

Because I was a mixed race child in the 1950's I was hard to place. The social workers looked hard and found two families that they felt would qualify. The family that won out had already adopted a child who was the same sort of mixed race...hispanic and japanese. It is a rare mix that I have yet to duplicate.

My parents to be came to the meeting with me and the social workers, along with my brother to be. He brought along a football to play catch. He was twelve and I was a little over one. The social workers were so impressed at him. At the same meeting I fell asleep in my mother's lap and everyone was amazed how calm I was.

The next meeting my parents took me home and the social workers said how wonderful a placement this was...the best they had ever seen.

Date submitted: January 30, 2011

Isolation

Being involved in a church community, school...having friends...trying to communicate with my parents...I was essentially alone regarding being adopted. I probably knew some other adoptees. But adoption was never a topic of discussion. When it did come up there was nothing much to say. The silences lasted.

Sexuality was tough. I kept thinking about my father who left me and my mother...and my mother who left me. Every time I was sexually attracted to someone I thought that this was dangerous. I never knew what to do about those thoughts and feelings. I was self-conscious and anxious.

I was anxious a lot, so I self-soothed when I went to bed. I don't know where I learned it but I did it a lot even when I was very young. I don't think it helped me develop sexually. My fantasy life was stimulated by it but my relationships weren't helped. I never learned to talk about it. It was a secret. I was good at secrets.

My body was strange. My skin was darker than almost everyone. I was a different race and to me my face was shaped like a monkey-face. All of these odd facts made me feel isolated and different. I imagined myself living alone in a trailer as an adult.

But these thoughts ran counter to others. I also wanted to live and do things. I loved beautiful things, for example, watching far off thunderstorms, the colors in the evening sky. I wanted to be as expressive as the sky and all my secrets, hidden darkness to be gently treated, held, loved -- and told that they were okay and normal and good: my body, my skin, my sexuality accepted.

It was a discovery that these shaped my life. Trying to conform and fit like others, I was shaped like clay by adoption's fingers -- by secrets. Silences pressed, creased, accented. So much in private, hidden from me. I know things about solitude. I'm still trying to find words.

Date submitted: January 28, 2011

It was about truth

When I was forty-eight years old I went to a friend's wedding. Afterwards the priest came up and asked me if I was Hawaiian. I smiled and said, 'yes.' Later, driving home with my wife, I said, 'I don't know if I'm really that or not.'

I had gotten to the point that I wondered if my parents really knew where I came from. I was adopted when I was fourteen months old, after being in foster care. I was a mixed race child so I was hard to place. Social workers took care of my files. How do I know that the social workers told them the truth?

I remembered that my dad said something just before he died. "You might want to look up your natural mother, she came from a leading family in Hawaii." At the time it just raised more questions in me. He is dying and he is telling me something about my mother. Was he just saying something to make me feel better? Was this just one of his fantasies? Or was he saying that he suspected I might want to know her?

It's funny that I thought my dad might say something just to make me feel better, as if I needed comforting or would believe whatever he said. He wasn't the sort of person to lie. But I always thought he was a little sentimental. Maybe he would shade the truth in brighter colors. After he and my mom died, I wondered what was true about where I came from.

After spending lots of money -- probably close to one thousand dollars -- I got close enough to my mother to have to hold my breath for two weeks. I had to wait for her permission to arrive at the court in the county of my adoption before I could learn her name.

Yes, I was conceived in Hawaii. Yes, my mother and father were (pretty much) who I was told. My parents had that right and I was glad because I wanted to believe them. It bothered me that I doubted. The truth is something I had to know for myself. In fact, the truth was much more interesting than anything I imagined. It was the dreams and fantasies that got to me. What right does an adopted person have to the truth? The same as everyone.

Date submitted: January 27, 2011

Don't drive yourself crazy

As an adoptee, it makes me sad to read about the grief many adoptees and sperm donor children are feeling. The saddest part about it is that I think a lot of it is self induced.

I know that growing up, there were times that I felt like my parents didn't understand me and that my "real" parents would have. But, the truth is, every kid feels misunderstood growing up. The difference is, adoptees/donees have a fantasy world that they can retreat to where everything would be easier if they were with their "real" parents.

If children being raised by the people that gave birth to them often feel misunderstood, why in the world would adoptees/donees have it any better if they were with their birth parents?

I also have the perspective now of raising my own children. I'm sure that they have felt misunderstood on occasion and the truth is, there are times that I have not been able to understand them. We are creatures of our own inherent personality and our environment. Our personality or temperament may be similar to that of our "real" parents, but then again, it may be completely opposite. I know that most of you have heard this before, but it is true that the people who have raised you are your real parents.

Find your strength from inside. Adoptees/donees who were raised by loving parents only have a "hole" or a "missing piece" if they decide to create that hole themselves.

Date submitted: January 20, 2011

The Missing

I was given much, and gained much. Outside in, it was a dreamworld; seldom have two people wanted a child so much, or been so prepared to love one. Daddy spun me round, taught me science. Mom nurtured, taught me nature. A dog, a cat, a horse. Room to run. Private schools. Swim team, Pony Club. Charmed life, I'm sure. Who wants to hear that the princess wants out - not just out of the tower, but out of the fairy tale itself? I didn't voice the pain. I didn't know who I was, or where I came from. What an insignificant burden to bear in a world filled with pain.

Curiosity mixed with longing becomes an itch, and the more I scratched, the more I searched, the more I uncovered a wound. Shut out, locked out, told I had no right to know, I railed against the walls that had been erected around my identity. It never leaves you. People unknowing, unthinkingly, pore on salt, pick, pink the scars. A request for a medical history. A reciting of the family genealogy. A story - a birth story - recited to a son on his birthday, knowing that my own was lost. It's minor, I told myself. It's a flesh wound. But need outweighed gratitude, and I searched again, and found.

Prepared for the worst, for rejection, for shame, for recoil, I was given welcome. They spoke of longing, never quelled. Of whispered prayers and silent meditation. They missed me, all those years. That was the gain. A family history. A flick of a wrist that resembled mine. A way of seeing the world that was shared.

I wish it didn't hurt. I am grateful. But the picture of my other parents, her arms empty, can bring me to my knees. I am missing. An obituary, the count just slightly off, less than truth. I am missing. My great-grandmother's 90th birthday, with the whole family gathered around...I am missing. Always missing, for thirty-some years.

My eighteenth birthday came and went, and half a continent away, a grandfather I should have known breathed his last. The stories that are hardest to hear are the ones where I'm missing. What came before, in the decades and centuries before the 1970's, is my birthright. They don't bring pain, and they aren't hard to hear. But the ones between then and now cut like a knife, because they're part of a life I didn't lead, where I was silent as a ghost, and no more substantial than a wisp of air - because I was missing.

Date submitted: December 08, 2010

Finding Me In The Bathroom

http://peachneitherherenorthere.blogspot.com/2007/10/finding-me-in-bathroom-stall.html

Today at church I got this "revelation" about adoptees. We're not really able to publicly grieve or even acknowledge the pain hidden deep inside over the loss of our Mothers or our original selves. No, we HAVE A MOTHER ~ we're "special" & "chosen" ~ WHY WOULD WE NEED TO GRIEVE ANYTHING? Weirdos.

So I got up from my seat after church (wiping away tears ~ I'm a big fat cry-baby), and high-tailed it quickly into the restroom to "freshen" up. I hurried past the rest of church society intermingling, conversing, sharing, connecting ~ and made a bee-line for the bathroom, as usual. Didn't want them to see me completely undone emotionally.

You know why? Because then I'd have to be REAL. And what I realized is that most of society DOESN'T WANT the REAL ME. They want the "Happy to be Adopted" me. The one who, sure, may have a HINT of CURIOSITY, but nothing that really affects me deeply ~ because I am fulfilling the role that was written out on my amended birth certificate, my adoption decree ~ that is WHO I AM SUPPOSED TO BE.

Society buys into this and shrinks back from any adoptee who breaks free (even through the deep help of the Holy Spirit) and dares to become REAL ~ not just the person they were legally created to be ~ but who God created them to be. And embrace. And heal. And live. But many times it has to be done alone. And in secret, like sealed records in the courthouse. Adoption is like that somehow.

It creates LIES to COVER truth ~ true parentage, true identities, true stories, true realities. They are replaced by man-made truths ~ new parentage, new identities, new stories, new "realities". New certificates. New names. New homes. New lives.

But nothing man-made lasts. It eventually crumbles and TRUTH prevails. Even through great pain. Kind of like the cross.

I'm so glad that someone wants to know the real me. Even if I am in a bathroom stall crying, seemingly alone.

Date submitted: October 08, 2010