I haven’t written about it in years, but I was adopted. One of the earliest posts I published here briefly described why I was put up for adoption, my search for my mom, and our first meeting.
Recently, I have been thinking about my experiences as an adoptee and the experiences Mom has lived as a birthmother. After rereading the post I wrote more than five years ago, I have committed myself to contacting my biological father.
Since my earliest days talking with my mom, I have known my birthfather’s identity. I have occasionally thought of him for more than 20 years. When I have thought of him, I have wondered all of the typical questions adoptees have. What is his family’s medical history? What is his personality like? What is he doing with his life? If I met him, would I find I had things in common with him? Would we even get along?
Given the difficult circumstances surrounding my mom’s choosing adoption, I have tried telling myself it wasn’t worth pursuing. But that was the surface truth. The hard truth is I kept myself from doing something I knew would be difficult. In the deepest passages of my mind, I was resisting seeking the truths I wanted to know and those I have a right to know because I didn’t want to open many cans of worms.
I couldn’t know how he and his family would react to my blindness, and I really hate having to always prove myself to people. I didn’t want to start something that could be hard for Mom. I didn’t want her having to relive painful memories and have to examine old wounds that she will never fully close. I didn’t want to upset the innocent people in his family who I’m guessing have no idea about this part of his history.
I have spent more than 20 years finding justifications for why I wasn’t doing something I should have done and that I had every right to do. Even worse, I was letting the limited time I have to discover information that is mine to know pass without taking action.
Living as I do in a world where the simple acts of paying my garbage and water bills can become a fight to defend my civil rights, it can become easy to talk yourself out of doing things that are potentially more difficult because of the emotions and pain involved with them. In a life where finding a comfortable daily existence is made difficult by a world that is still too inaccessible to you and when you know very few people consider you their equal or even deserving of respect, the idea of taking on this kind of painful risk is hard.
For me, finding the strength to do what I should have done and what I have every right to do has been so difficult that I have spent more than 20 years convincing myself that it didn’t matter and that I would be fine if I never sought the truth. Since I’m usually so committed to the truth, and because my childhood made me want to become the kind of person who is willing to seek the truth and live with some integrity, I have spent more than 20 years failing to meet my standards for myself and letting myself off the hook for failing.
Sitting here today, I am acutely aware that if my biological father should die before I face him, I will know I failed myself. So, I’m going to find him. I’m going to send him a generic letter and put the ball in his court. I will give him the chance to give me the answers I deserve and to maybe set a few things right. I can’t control what he does. I am the only one who can control what I do. I can’t let myself off the hook any longer. I must get this done.