I Believe in Signs

Here's the link (or click on the title above) to my monthly post over at the adoption website, "Grown in My Heart."

Think adopted children are too young to experience or be aware of the dissonance, confusion, loss, and displacement that come with being adopted? Think again...

Here's an excerpt from the opening:

Recently, initially due to my husband’s insight, I had somewhat of a revelation–although it will seem dumbly obvious to some of you. Yet this “epiphany” reaffirms in my mind that as a very young child I was not only acutely aware of being adopted but I was already heavily processing my adoption and experiencing the accompanying dissonance and confusion of identity–even though it did not appear obvious to my parents, or to me, for that matter...

The New Generations of Adoptees Have It All

Of course the title of this is a little tongue & cheek--well, that is, depending on your personal perspective.

Some read the title and vigorously nod in agreement. Others read the title and feel frustration burning within. And still others react somewhere in between.

Recently, as I was corresponding with a fellow, but much younger adoptee, I realized something that might have been obvious to many of you (but was not initially to me). The upcoming generations of adoptees in some ways face an even greater pressure to submit to the "gratitude gospel of adoption."

What do I mean?

In short--"You newer generations of adoptees have so much more available to you than those who came before you, so really, you shouldn't have any major issues" or "Things are different today--adoptive parents know the realities now. Your parents have it on right this time, so you kids adopted in more recent years won't have the same issues as your predecessors."

I think today's adoptees are often viewed as the benefactors of the perceived progress in the adoption community: culture camps, heightened awareness and knowledge on the part of adoptive parents of the issues adoptees face, more acceptance and openness to the adoptees' origins and original mother and family, etc.

These factors do in fact represent a change in resources and awareness from what was available or understood when I was growing up. But, the presence of these factors does not change what will always be true--being adopted comes with deep lifelong losses and grief. And culture camps for adoptees and education courses for adoptive parents don't change that inherent truth or somehow make the hardships of being an adoptee magically nonexistent.

However, as the perceived benefactors, the newer generations are expected to, well, benefit and hence I think at times are expected to suffer less consequence and trauma. I'm not saying these changes don't benefit adoptees. I am simply stating that they are not a "cure." And their development has the potential to backfire by placing another layer of unrealistic expectation on not only adoptees, but on adoptive parents and original mothers.

The availability of camps or searches, etc. does not inevitably mitigate or counteract the pain and loss that come with being adopted. Yet, I think there can be this perception, this unspoken expectation that the newer generation of adoptees has it all and should be free of the heartache and trouble that can characterize the experience of earlier generations of adoptees like myself.

"We know so much more now than we did before..." This is true.

But what we know needs to be managed in a way that continues to acknowledge and validate adoptees--both earlier and newer generations--not to obligate or consign adoptees to more of the same.

The goal of "progress," in this case, is not the eradication of loss and grief--that's completely unreasonable--but rather a prevalent, sincere acknowledgment and understanding of the loss and grief (and the accompanying suffering and hardship) that reaches so far and so deeply that it it is viewed not as anomaly or neurosis but rather as the norm--not to allow the suffering to overtake us but that it is finally met with the compassion and acceptance that grief and pain long for and need in order to heal...

* * *

John Raible wrote a series of entries that happens to relate to what I discussed above.

a Metaphor

Okay, so I figured out a metaphor that more clearly depicts why I feel so irked by the currently scarce, underdeveloped, and generally shoddy availability of post-reunion services by adoption agencies for Korean adoptees.

In a previous post, "the Price of Translation: the lack of post-reunion assistance," I discussed my frustration with the inadequate and often pricey services that the adoption agency provides for post-reunion, in particular the heavy charges for translation aid between adoptees and their biological families.

(Just for clarity's sake, I am fortunate enough to have a friend who is beautifully and adeptly fluent in both Korean and English who volunteers to translate letters for me. However, without her, I would basically be trying to dig a well without a shovel. Scraping at the ground with my fingernails--needless to say, but I'm saying it anyway-- would not get me very far, and I'd die of thirst.)

I am not discrediting the efforts made by organizations like G.O.A.L. and even some of the adoption agencies. Thank goodness at least some are doing something.

But they're certainly insufficient to meet the increasing demands and the growing complexities of post-reunion. They also somewhat neglect to consider the potentially sensitive and fragile nature of post-reunion.

Having random strangers translating deeply intimate and personal information can feel invasive and raw. But hey, as the great old American adage goes--beggars can't be choosers, right? But what if I didn't choose to be a beggar, and what if I want to be a chooser but my circumstances only give me a choice between A and A.

I'm using too much metaphor. Moving on...

So, here's the metaphor that I intended to share. It exemplifies what the experience of adoption, search, reunion, and post-reunion have felt like to me:

Say a doctor shows up at my door.

He tells me, "Hi, I'm a doctor. I will take care of you."

He then proceeds to beat me silly, black, and blue, ties me up, and throws me in the trunk of his Lexus.

After a long, dark, painful ride, the car stops. The doc unlocks the trunk and stares down at me.

He then says, "Gosh, I'm sorry. I feel awful about beating you. But hey, like I said when we first met, I'm a doctor. I'm here to help. I brought you to the hospital at which I work."

He carries me to a hospital bed, treats my wounds, and attends to my injuries--albeit, the ones that he inflicted.

When he is done, he pats me on the head and says, "There, there now. All better."

Then suddenly he hands me a bill for ten thousand smackers for the treatment I just received, and goes on to say, "Oh by the way, you're also going to need ongoing treatment and physical therapy for some of the more severe injuries you sustained as a result of me beating you. The cost is going to be considerable, you have health insurance right? If you don't, well, you'll figure something out, now, won't you?"

He concludes by saying, "Well, I hope you get to feeling better. I sure am glad I'm a doctor and that I was able to help you with the wounds after I beat you so badly. Sorry about the long, dark, bumpy ride. It took me a while to figure out what I was thinking. Good luck with your ongoing treatment. I can't really help you from this point on, but there are support groups for folks like you who have been beaten by doctors like me. Take care, now."

And then he walks off.

Every once in a while I contact him because I need his help to manage the details of the injuries sustained in order to get the appropriate ongoing treatment, but otherwise, he remains pretty uninvolved and removed.

He steps in here and there when he thinks it is needed, but overall the burden of navigating and figuring out the complexities of the process of healing and treatment due to his beating of me remain my responsibility.

* * *

Many would say, Well, girl, that's just the way the world works. And I would say, Yep, you're right.

But I don't have to agree with the way the world works. And I don't have to shrink back and act like nothing can be done to improve it.

* * *

Another little clarification: I always feel like I'm having to clarify to others that I'm not an angry, bitter adoptee. I always feel as though that's how people are going to label me when I express these types of thoughts.

If you were to ever meet me in person, you'd know right away that I'm not a bitter, angry person. Just keep in mind, though, that the purpose of this blog is not to toss out warm fuzzies for everyone to snuggle and cuddle with.

It's to illuminate the honest, unfiltered experience of an adult adoptee. Yes, here and there I will wrestle with a beast of emotion, but it doesn't mean you then proceed to discount what I'm feeling as just "that angry adoptee stuff."

If you're going to enter the adoptee world, you have to be willing to see it from the myriad perspectives of those who occupy it. And if you're not willing, then maybe you should re-think not only why you're reading this in the first place, but why you wanted to enter the adoption world to begin with...

adoption: generally misunderstood

The persisting lack of knowledge and awareness regarding the issues that adoptees face continue to astound and confound me.

I was reminded recently how rampant and pervasive are the utter ignorance and incomprehension when it comes to the profound loss that adoptees experience.

My husband was speaking with a friend. We'll call him Clark.

Clark and my husband, Mike, happened to stumble into a conversation about a friend of Clark's. Basically, Clark's friend has a daughter in her early 20's, who Clark described as troubled and distant. Clark's friend was described as being a father who is removed and frustrated by his daughter's apparent disconnection and detachment.

Well, eventually it came up that Clark's friend's daughter is adopted. And not only is she adopted, but her [adoptive] Mom died recently and suddenly--only two years ago--in a car accident. (The first loss of her biological family is compounded by the loss of her adoptive Mom).

Of course, as Mike was listening to Clark describe the situation, Mike was startled by the lack of awareness and understanding and proceeded to try to explain to Clark how being adopted most likely accounts for much of the daughter's behavior.

Clark demonstrated difficulty grasping the concept, and in response to my husband's efforts to educate Clark, Clark asked, "Well, do you think it's just better for parents not tell their children at all that they're adopted?"

Inside, Mike is thinking, "!!!!!!!!" There seemed to be no acknowledgment of the double trauma experienced by Clark's friend's daughter as a result of being adopted along with the recent loss of her adoptive Mom.

Although frustrating and alarming, neither Mike nor I should have been surprised.

As much progress that has been made, we still have a long way to go.

It is estimated that there are anywhere from 6 to 8 million adoptees living in America. Sure it may only be a small percentage of the overall population but it's significant enough that most people know someone who is adopted, if not multiple persons who are adopted.

And yet, the adoption experience remains one of the most misunderstood and misinterpreted issues even today. It is subject to repeated euphemism and often the general public thinks they understand when they really have no clue.

What other trauma or loss is treated in the same way? Divorce, death of a loved one, returning from war--all of these major life events are viewed appropriately and treated with matching sympathy and compassion.

Yet when it comes to the adoption experience, society ignores any acknowledgment of trauma to the adoptee. It's not simply frustrating, but it is detrimental and hurtful to all of those involved in the adoption triad.

When a woman experiences a miscarriage, generally, most understand the loss involved. (Although, certainly, there will always be people who say well-intentioned but utterly misguided things).

How great is the loss when a woman relinquishes the child she has born? How deep the grief when that child must spend his or her life having lost the first mother and even more so having no answers, no knowledge of what happened.

It is indescribable the frustration and angst I experience in response to the lack of respect and understanding for the situation that adoptees face.

I continue to encounter individuals who not only do not understand but make no effort even to acknowledge the simple fact that adoption involves a profound loss and the accompanying grief and sorrow, confusion and pain that such loss involves.

I hope with time, more and more people will be willing and open to acknowledge the inherent trauma that adoption involves.

And if you're reading this and you think that perhaps you're one of the folks who perhaps does not quite get it, but you're willing to try to at least attain a basic understanding, please keep trying.

And feel free to contact me any time. I am more than willing to help you understand. And I promise I will be patient and considerate--just as I would hope that you would be patient and considerate toward me.

flashback: my 19 year old adoptee self

Okay, brace yourselves. I've really dug out a few things from the archives...and they're simultaneously disturbing and cliche, and easily mistaken for melodramatic teen angst.

Despite the above disclaimer, and the rudimentary and novice nature of both the writing and the art, I assure you that the following pieces were born of more than the temporal and whimsical woes of adolescent rebellion.

I created the combination pieces of art and poetry in 1995 at the age of 19, although only one month away from my 20th birthday.

As mentioned, the writing and art are comparatively unsophisticated and reflect the young age at which they were written. But nonetheless, I think they are poignant and honest examples of the sometimes horrific inner struggle I faced as I dealt with the confusion and despair that have come to characterize, in part, my experience as an adoptee.

I often think of myself as a more extreme case. But maybe I'm not. Perhaps I simply have been limited in my encounters with other individuals who express thoughts and emotions similarly dark and dismal.

(Although there are certainly a few "kindred souls" who come to mind, whom I know will connect somewhat with this darker side...).

Furthermore, whether one is adopted neither precludes any single person from experiencing such emotion nor does it necessarily induce such emotion. It is simply to be human that gives any individual the potential capacity to experience such depth of emotion.

It is clear from the pictures and the accompanying writing that I was wrestling with very intense emotion--some intensely dark emotions. Regardless of their origin, the self-loathing, the confusion over my identity and place in the world are nothing more and nothing less that what is known as the human condition.

However, in my particular case, I now realize, of course, that so much of my struggle was directly connected to being adopted. But at the time, my family and I were clueless.

The darkness that poured out from me seemed inexplicable and without cause. None of us knew any better.

Now we do.

And although these pieces remain a bit shocking and unsettling to me even now, they also give me hope. I do not see myself in the same way that I did when I was 19, almost 20--well, that is, most of the time.

At least today, the confusion and emotion are not as self-abhorrent and self-destructive, and seem now to be directed in a healthier, more self-actualizing way.

It is not that I never enter into darkness again, but rather that the light is now allowed to come in.

[oil pastel on paper, 9x12]

Skeleton

what an ugly sight

who would build such a thing as this?

all measurements out of proportion

especially there in the middle

unpleasant bulges

unbecoming shapes

beyond disgusting

what a shame

a shameful site

in that black tunnel

through that brown window

i see her strangling herself

for she broke the scale

and she is swimming in her 24-hour meal

just an addiction she cannot stop

just a coping skill

to kill

the emptiness

it is all or

nothing

she would prefer nothing

but

the art of self-control

the ritual of discipline

she cannot maintain

she wants to be a skeleton

so she can hide in her closet

undiscovered

never hungry again

never full again

but just a plain old skeleton,

with skin.

[oil pastel on paper, 9x12]

The Missing Stanza

judgement stares her in the eyes

condemnation orders her

on her face

on her knees

she doubts to grasp the offer

bloated head

bloated heart

bloated stomach

hazardous consumption

staring in the toilet,

her reflection

swims in defecation

urination

lacking explanation

perhaps a dance with that

fiery gentleman

until she is silver ashes

dancing on the breezes

winking in the winds

embrace his freedom?

taste his milk and honey?

then cease her staring

in the toilet

and her visions murdering

each other

in her bloated brain.

mark

"...I am more acutely aware that this life of ease and comfort was not made for someone like me--a stranger, an unwanted child, a divided woman with no claim to happiness." Kim Sunee, Trail of Crumbs (a Korean adoptee memoir)

" 'What do you do all day long?'...Writing is not a legitimate answer; neither is cooking or being the full-tme companion of someone..." Kim Sunee, Trail of Crumbs

I often feel as though I have to justify my existence with something grand. I must leave some kind of mark worthy of being given the privilege to live. Simply living never feels as though it is enough to take away the sense of debt and guilt I feel for being alive.

I blame no one for "making" me feel this way. Rather I think it is simply the way that I was born--inherent to the nature of the life that was cast upon me. The way that I was born was the way of one who came into the world already without home or family. And the nature of such a beginning in life is one that leaves me constantly doubting and questioning whether I have yet proven my worthiness to remain.

I am intrigued by the confidence and assurance at which my brothers seem to go through life. They do not seem to question or doubt their right to be here and to take the most of life. I observe this as though it is a foreign land and one that I will never understand.

this box or that box

Which box do I check? Korean or American? I look Korean but really I’m American.

I ask my husband as I stare at the application for an H-Mart card. I feel stupid. I’m thirty-four, not four. I should know what box to check without having to ask someone else.

He responds very rationally.

I think what they’re actually trying to find out is what language is your primary language so that they know what language to use when sending you marketing materials.

Oh, I say somewhat befuddled. Okay. Right. Well, then I guess that means I check “American.”

misunderstanding

I am feeling pretty devastated and hurt right now.

Sometimes, a conversation in which you’re trying to help others to understand goes awry. And it turns into one giant misunderstanding that snowballs into disaster.

I had a conversation like that recently. A part of it was my fault, I believe, for not being clearer or more concise and for being too emotional about it.

It confirms that some people just can’t get it, or they choose to not want to get it.

Either way, the truth is that everyone has the capacity to “get it,” albeit to varying degrees, if they really want to try.

My husband and also several good friends of mine have shown me this. They are not adoptees, and yet they have made efforts through reading and through drawing on their own personal experiences to understand the adoptee experience. And I believe they would agree that doing so has enriched their understanding not simply of the adoptee experience but of life and the people who live it.

Seriously. You can know what it feels like to be an adoptee. You can understand it, if you’re willing to spend a little extra time thinking about it or trying to relate. Really, I believe that any of us has the capacity to have compassion on anyone, if we’re willing. But that’s the key—are we willing?

That’s why I like to quote Chang-Rae Lee from his book, Native Speaker, "I ask that you remember these things, or know them now. Know that what we have in common, the sadness and pain and injustice, will always be stronger than our differences."

I have come to believe over the years, that if we are willing to go there, we can tap into our own suffering and hardship to reach out to others—to show compassion, understanding, kindness, and sympathy.

Of course, as is it has been said before, “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.” Indeed, it is not as though we can walk in someone else’s shoes or live someone else’s life, but we can learn to relate. We can learn to show compassion and foster understanding.

I may not be able to understand the devastation of losing one’s spouse to cancer, but I can draw from my own experiences of loss and grief to have compassion, to try to understand the emotional journey that someone must take as they cope with such an experience.

If you know what it is to lose, then you can understand to whatever degree you choose, the emotion that others may experience when they, too, have lost.

But the hard part is being wiling to go there, being willing to allow yourself to feel that pain, on someone else’s behalf. In order to feel compassion, we must be willing to feel the pain and hurt ourselves, and not everyone is willing to go to that place of grief and loss for the sake of someone else. It takes a lot of energy and a lot of love.

I admit, I have failed at this time and time again. But I want to keep trying. I want to learn to have compassion, to show empathy—to use what pain and suffering I have experienced to reach out to the world, not in anger and rage, but with hope and love.

I have a long way to go. Sometimes, I let anger get the best of me. I know I can’t be perfect, of course, and at times, I will feel the slow burn or the quick rise of anger. But the goal isn’t to never feel angry.

Rather, it’s what I decide to do with that anger that matters.

the Therapy of Art

[dimensions: 15x20 in.]

[dimensions: 15x20 in.]

I.

Sobbing uncontrollably.

I feel as though my heart is going to stop. There are no words. My heart hurts so inexplicably and so profoundly that I fear its weight will wrench so relentlessly that my chest will cave in.

I want these pains, this grief, this impenetrable sorrow to cease. I want the agony to end.

I do not want to cry anymore. I do not want to feel anymore. I do not want to be adopted anymore.

II.

I'm trying to bring order out of chaos.

So many layers. Divided.

But I can't stop crying. I can't stop feeling. I cannot not be adopted anymore. This is how it is. This is my way in life.

* * *

I am friends with too many artists (and married to one) to ever feel comfortable calling myself an artist, but this does not stop me from engaging in my own sessions of "art therapy."

I had a serious moment of meltdown this past weekend, overcome by sobbing and grief, pain and angst. I told my husband that I felt as though my heart would stop, but that I could not find the words to express what I was feeling.

That's when he said, "You wanna do some art?"

Through my tears, I nodded.

Even as I painted, the tears pooled and streamed down my face. My heart continued to ache and twist. Yet, as the night wore on, I felt a deep breath of release, a slow rising of relief as the brush strokes began to say what words could not.

hole in the Sky II

“Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse” Nigerian Proverb

So, I think that I realize part of why I get such strong reactions when I express my anger, hurt, pain, frustration, confusion, etc. regarding my experience as an adoptee.

When I express such “negative” or “dark” albeit natural emotions, I think my family and loved ones take it personally. Although it has nothing to do with them, it feels as though it has everything to do with them. And I can understand that, and I want to be considerate and thoughtful, in the same way that I would hope they would be considerate and thoughtful toward me.

It’s not that my family didn’t love me enough. It’s not that I don’t love my family. When I express anger or hurt, it’s not because of what they have done or haven’t done, it’s because of the loss and grief that I feel over what happened beyond anyone’s control.

But when I say something like “Whatever punk decided that being adopted is a happy story with happy endings makes me want to vomit and kick a hole in the sky” it offends my family because they think I’m saying something about them.

For the record, then, I’m not saying anything about my family. I am grateful for them, and I love them.

The thing is that some wounds run so deeply and so pervasively, that they may never quite heal. And I need to feel safe enough and have freedom enough to feel the pain and the emotion that comes from feeling that pain.

If someone breaks an arm or gets a big gash in the head or has to undergo bypass surgery, you don’t condemn them for feeling a mixture of emotion. The person will feel everything from fear to anger to hope to gratitude. One emotion is neither wrong nor right. It just IS.

I often feel condemned or judged when I express the “darker” emotions that come with being adopted.

People only want to focus on the “happy” side. They feel offended and perturbed when I take the liberty to talk about the sadness and confusion, the anger and the hurt, the misunderstandings and presumptions.

When I say adoption is COMPLEX, this means it includes ALL of the range of emotions from happiness and gratitude to sadness and anger. And hence, I should be allowed to experience and work through each and every one. I don’t enjoy feeling hurt or sad or angry, but being shut down or shut out for feeling such emotions makes me feel condemned, trapped, judged, rejected. It perpetuates the notion that I’m only allowed to be happy and full of gratitude.

I can be happy and full of gratitude while also feeling deep grief and a sense of confusion. That’s exactly what makes the adoptee experience COMPLEX and hard for others to understand. It’s not a one-dimensional or even two-dimensional emotional journey. It’s multi-dimensional.

It’s hard for people to understand that an adoptee can feel a vortex of mixed emotions all in the same moment or over a period of time.

Well, I’m here to explain, that yes, we can feel more than one thing at the same time. I can feel deep love and gratitude for my family here while simultaneously feeling a deep sense of grief and sadness over having lost all connection with my biological family.

* * *

When a wife loses her husband, it is understood that the grief and loss will always be a part of her life. She may go on to remarry and live very happily and fully with another man, but the fact that she married again does not erase the loss and grief from losing her first husband. The loss is always there. And an unwillingness to acknowledge such seems cruel and uncompassionate.

The same emotion and thinking applies to losing a parent. When the parent is lost, the suffering and pain is intense and deep. No one ever expects the child to “get over” the loss. It remains. The child learns to live and learns to carry on the memory of the lost parent in productive ways but nothing ever “cures” the child of the loss and nor should anyone expect such. Again, to place such expectations on someone who has lost a parent seems cruel and heartless.

I’ve witnessed my own Mom get teary-eyed over her mother. Certain memories or instances trigger deep emotions in my Mom even today, although it has been over three decades since she lost her mother. Do people tell her she should just be grateful that she had a mom and that she should pull it together? NO, they understand the emotional process that comes with losing a parent. They have compassion, because they understand that a loss like that is deep and lasting.

Or in the horrific instance of a parent who has lost a child—again, the world seems to understand how to show compassion and patience with such tragic circumstances.

But when it comes to the loss and grief experienced by an adoptee, the world glazes over, and becomes hard and cold. It tells the adoptee to be grateful and to be quiet.

This seems unkind and narrow-minded.

Not only have adoptees experienced an incredible loss akin to losing a spouse or child or parent, but they also often have no way to heal or find any amount of resolution because all the pieces are missing. (Take for example, a wife whose husband is reported as MIA. Imagine the confusion and all the emotion she would face—trying to figure out how to move on but never really knowing what had happened or whether he is still alive. The lack of resolution, the unknown and the stress of not knowing…But then say, she remarries and tries to live on, until one day, all of a sudden, he is found and returns…What to do then?). Some might feel frustrated with me using such an analogy, but it’s the closest thing I can find to try to help others understand the EMOTION of what an adoptee like myself experiences.

Why is this so hard to grasp? Why does the world resist accepting this? And why am I condemned for wanting to know what happened and then experiencing a range of emotions as I find out the truth. Am I a bad, ungrateful person for wanting to know the truth? For wanting answers? No one would say that to the wife whose husband is MIA.

* * *

It seems that perhaps a part of the resistance to acknowledging the “difficult” side to adoption are the implications that some may assume, even if inaccurately.

Basically, what it comes down to is that the adoptee’s receiving of a new family does not magically sweep away all the wounds and hurt and loss. It doesn’t fix what has been broken.

My brother seemed bothered that I stated that being adopted is not a happy story with a happy ending. He said that it has a happy ending for him because “you’re my sister.” And this is true. It makes me HAPPY that I’m his sister. It makes me HAPPY that he’s my brother. I cannot imagine my life without him. He has remained one of my best friends throughout life.

But as I explained earlier, I can feel many things at once. And feeling hurt and angry does not diminish from the love and gratitude I feel for my brother. It’s simply and complexly that I feel it ALL.

It is as though I am pulled in several directions all at once. And it's maddening.

But this is hard for others to understand. How can I feel both angry and grateful at the same time? That’s the COMPLEX nature of being adopted. I have both lost and gained. I feel seemingly contradictory emotions at the same time because I am going through seemingly contradictory circumstances simultaneously.

It’s comparable to what I felt after our recent car accident. As we sat there in the car waiting for the ambulances, I felt a host of emotions all at once. I felt afraid but grateful. I felt angry yet compassionate. I wanted to cry and laugh all in one breath. That makes perfect sense to most people.

So, why can’t it be that I feel a host of emotions all at once when it comes to the LIFETIME experience and journey of being adopted?

* * *

And that leads me to another point I’d like to make. There is another assumption or misconception that I’d like to address briefly: the journey of an adoptee has an end. That’s another reason I said what I said at the end of the post previous to this. Although there are happy experiences that occur, being adopted is a lifetime journey filled with ups and downs. The only point at which it comes to an end is death. But until that time, an adoptee’s story doesn’t come to an ending at a certain point or age. It continues on until the grave is met.

A good book to read, if this is hard for you to understand is “Being Adopted: The Lifelong Search for Self.” (There is a direct link to it on my blog under “More Blogs & Resources”). Although I don’t necessarily agree with every word in the book, the overall theme of the book recognizes that the adoptee experience stretches through a lifetime, and does not end in adulthood.

It is very difficult for me when people assume that now that my biological family has emerged, I then, also have arrived. That all is well that has ended well.

But that’s the thing. It hasn’t ended. It has just begun, AGAIN. A new phase, a new chapter, whatever you want to call it. This is just a different phase in the journey that is a lifetime one.

And again, there are HAPPY things that have happened, and again, it makes me very HAPPY to have the family that I have—my Mom, Dad, and my three brothers. They ARE my FAMILY. And I’m not looking to change that.

But just as much as there are happy times, there are equally sad times and confusing times. Is that so bizarre? Is that so wrong?

The emotions that I experience in response to this convoluted and intertwining process must be allowed to emerge. They’re natural and normal for such circumstances. And they’re not a personal attack on anyone in my family. They’re just the natural outpouring of emotion that comes with the journey that I’m on.

It’s not anger toward my family that I feel. It’s anger regarding the circumstances and all the confusion and lack of understanding, all the hurt and pain, all the loss and lost time. It’s so many things.

And I get the feeling it will never really make sense to anyone, other than the few who choose to want to know.

hole in the Sky

I want anything. Anything. That I can find, do, throw, pound, kick. To make this stop.

This avalanche of emotion that is threatening to crumble and bury me beneath it.

But maybe that’s secretly what I want. Maybe then, I could close my eyes and go numb, and feel nothing at all.

Now, I feel everything. The weight of everything. Of this life that I did not choose. Of this identity that was given to me. That I cannot undo.

This being trapped somewhere in between. This feeling of not knowing where to go or what to do. And there is no way out of who. I am now.

There are no words, there are never the words. I cannot find them. I can only throw them, and scream them, and scrape them across the ground. Stomp them and crush them and toss them into the ocean. Burn them. Burn them until they are nothing but black ash and the scent of what has been scorched beyond recognition.

Maybe these words sound like terror. It is only the terror within me that scratches and moans to find its way out. That must claw its way out. That needs space and a place to exact its havoc and furor. Before it takes me with it.

Before I get carried away with it.

* * *

Last year was such a marathon of one emotional event after another that I had to just keep going. Now that things have slowed down, finally, I am discovering that I am basically an emotional wreck. Hence, the scary tirade of emotional writing you encountered above.

I’m having trouble focusing at work, and my emotions feel raw and sore. All it takes is just a tiny bit of pressure, and I feel on the verge of a torrent of tears.

* * *

I snapped at my husband today while I was trying to find a dimmable floodlight, and then I wanted snap myself off.

I told him, I feel so much pain but I don’t know what it is.

He aptly replied that I’ve had no time to process all that happened last year.

So, I have a year’s worth of emotion stored up, and it is only now that it’s finally getting the chance to trickle out. And I am terrified of what is to come, because I am most certainly not a lightweight when it comes to duking it out with my emotions.

I get the sense that I’m in for the fight of the century. And my fists are already bruised and bloody. But maybe that’s just the problem. I’m trying to make peace with a beast by hitting it in the eye. And the beast wasn’t attacking me in the first place. It was just nudging me in the side, looking for a pat on the head and maybe a snack.

Maybe this time, it’s not a fighter that I need to be.

* * *

Whatever punk thought up the notion that being adopted was a happy story with happy endings makes me want to vomit and kick a hole in the sky.

[Click title, "hole in the sky II," for a follow-up post to this statement.]

Both

She always thought that once she was found, well, that she would no longer be lost. But she began to realize that being found didn’t mean that you were no longer lost. And in fact, as ridiculous as it may sound, she discovered that being found could often make one feel even more lost than before.

* * *

Take for example, a seed. If you lose a seed, you may find it again. But when you do find it, it may look quite different. You will not find the seed itself, but rather you will find what the seed became.

Or you may have a rock collection, and say you lose a rock from that collection. Maybe it’s a piece of rose quartz, maybe it’s a piece of obsidian, or maybe it’s that block of pyrite. Whichever one it is that you happen to lose, when you encounter it again, you may not even recognize it.

It may have ended up pulverized and paved into a sidewalk or street. It may have been eroded and now is part of the ground that feeds the seed that became a flower or a tree. Or it may still be sitting in the place in which you dropped it, buried deeply by the changing of seasons.

The point here is of course the reason that she still felt lost even though she had been found.

She was not that seed any longer. Her form and shape had changed drastically over the years. Who she was now seemed nothing like who she might have been.

She was the sidewalk now. Or the street. Or the flower. Or the tree. But she was no longer the little seed or the tiny rock that once belonged to a young couple’s dream or a small child’s collection.

She was grown-up now. She had been pulverized and paved. She had been scattered and transplanted, and now pieces of her had gone every which way, so that when she finally was found, well, there was no way to truly gather her and put her back together.

The state in which she was found was certainly her, but what she came to realize was that the “her” that had been found would always to a certain degree be lost. The act of being found could not magically recover the pieces of her that had been lost or trampled or scattered over the years.

As absurd as you may think she is for thinking such a thing, she did for quite some time hope that being found would somehow mean that all the little pieces of her that had been lost would somehow resurface and find their way back to her—that the simple act of being found would mysteriously yet concretely make her whole.

But now, as time passed since being found, her sense of being lost, although it had diminished in small ways, only seemed to grow in larger ways.

She would find herself on hands and knees peering beneath the car to make certain she was not hiding beneath the carriage. She would stare into the mirror, thinking that if she stared long enough, she would find the answer to all that still felt lost.

She stood in corners and hid under covers. She cried in the bathroom and wept in the shower. She could not quite explain why, other than the disappointment and despair that she felt when the act of being found turned out not to be the undoing of her being lost.

* * *

And this state of being found but still feeling lost has created quite a quagmire for her personally and socially, for the world she lives in views her now as being found. And with her fortunate state of being found, the world she lives in expects her to behave accordingly, to act according to the protocol of one who has been found.

So, she conducts herself as best as she knows how, now as one who has been found—that is why she feels obliged to sob only when she is in the bathroom or taking a shower, when no one can see her or hear her.

But all along, silently and increasingly, she knows that the charade will begin to falter, and that her containment will begin to bulge.

She can only go along in life for so long in a state of being found but feeling lost before the absurdity and incongruity of it all begin to warp and crack the surface of the world in which she lives.

She knows that eventually she will find herself slipping through the little cracks and buckling at the bending surface.

She and the world all the while thinking that she had finally been found will come to realize that all that she had so carefully assembled to resemble her self would once again be lost.

Hence, to be found does not mean to no longer be lost. But to be lost does not ineluctably mean one needs to be found.

Perhaps, she will one day find peace, knowing that she will always remain as both.

the Tide

I.

I am not in control.

I never have been and never will be.

But I always have a choice. We always have a choice.

Pain and regret can either inspire us to fight for redemption or drive us to destruction. It is all a matter of choice.

Everyone faces such choices.

I used to destroy. Now, I hope.

Perhaps it is choice flapping on the ends of the threads of blood that stream through my heart.

I feel the tide of these threads. Sometimes, they wash me away with them. Other times, I curl my toes into the shore; I will not be pulled into the current.

This time, I cannot afford to drift. But I cannot remain on the shore.

I must wade out into the riptide with purpose yet without conclusion, with direction yet without destination.

I must find my choices then let them go.

II.

As my “reunion” continues to unfold, more knowledge also surfaces. At certain points, it is knowledge easily embraced.

For example, the trip to meet my cousins this past week was in summary, fantastic.

I was nervous and a bit intimidated initially. I was fearful that I would feel like an alien or that we wouldn't all get along. But as time progressed, much to my relief, I found myself feeling at ease and welcomed.

It was a fulfilling experience and one that hopefully will continue to develop in richness and meaning.

* * *

At other points, the knowledge you gain requires a bit more, let’s say, finesse and time. I guess I’m writing this as somewhat of a caveat or at least to depict, in part, a realistic perspective.

These reunions are almost always complicated. And sometimes things happen that, well, complicate matters. And it may have absolutely nothing to do with the adoptee but could severely affect everyone involved.

I cannot go into detail for the sake of privacy and discretion, but I say all this to communicate that reunion, with all its wonder and hope, also comes with its hardship and tribulation.

Feelings of elation will inevitably merge with feelings of consternation; feelings of fulfillment will blend with feelings of loss.

* * *

And it all takes time—so much time. Even though it has already [only] been a year since I was first notified that my biological mother and father had been found, really we are still in the beginning phases of the process.

The circumstances are still fragile and volatile, unpredictable and unknown. Everything is still too new to avoid uncertainty and the unexpected.

I’m not blighting my own crop here. I’m just trying to understand the process properly while tending to it attentively and with care, so that ultimately the harvest goes well—albeit it will never be perfect.

III.

Also, for those of you who may wonder when in the world I’m ever going to write about what actually happened and is happening during this reunion process—you know, the details, like what happened during the first meetings with each biological parent? What did you do while you were in Korea both the first and second visit? What have you discovered thus far about your biological family and origins? How are the relationships going so far? You know, when am I going to get up off the floor and “show-and-tell?”

Well, I’m not sure.

I am thinking perhaps about eventually attempting to write the story in a “book/memoir” form, but who knows whether that will ever happen. It’s an intimidating and overwhelming endeavor at which very few do well and at which even fewer succeed, and even more importantly requires one to actually deal with the emotion of it all.

[Despite what you may think, I am not passively fishing to be cheered on here. I’m really just trying to let those who were hoping to get details on this blog know why they can’t find the details for which they’re looking.]

However, if by chance, I should ever make such an attempt, my intention is to be able to tell the story as a whole rather than in broken pieces, which is what this blog is—a bunch of broken pieces.

In some ways, maybe this blog is a warm-up, a way to slowly begin the process of working through all the unruly emotion and tangled details of such a journey.

And boy, does it feel as though I’m dealing with a wild beast. I guess that’s the reason for all the broken pieces. The beast is still being trained. And until she has been tamed, you can’t show her to the world. She doesn’t yet know how not to shred all that is around her.

The funny thing is that if I met you in person, I could tell you everything. But there’s something about writing it out that makes it feel indelible. And I’m not ready for that feeling yet.

So, fear of indelibleness and wild beasts, at this point, prevent me currently from being able to give details.

Does this make any sense? I’m being a bit ridiculous and gratuitous with all the silly metaphor.

Tossing out all the metaphorical mumbo jumbo, then, what it comes down to is that basically, I’m just not ready. At least not here and not just yet.

But, hopefully sooner than later, I will be able to reign in the beast, pull together the pieces, and get comfortable with writing it all down, and ultimately, with the inevitably crystallizing nature of finally coming to terms with all that is the complicated yet fulfilling experience of blood and family.