worlds

A fellow Korean adoptee who has also met her biological family asked me recently, Do you feel any different…?

Although the question may seem a simple one and the answer obvious, it is actually an incredibly profound inquiry.

* * *

In short, I feel worlds different.

I am never going to be the same.

I traveled to Korea as a person I thought I knew. I have returned as someone new and unfamiliar. It is as though I am unknown now even to myself. I must make my own acquaintance.

I feel as though I have undergone this irrevocable and life-altering transformation. Yet no one else can tell. No one else can perceive it.

I found an unknown life and secret identity that have belonged to me yet eluded me all these years. Now as they try to find their place within me, I simultaneously fear and welcome their emergence.

* * *

I feel as though I am of two worlds.

How do I reconcile the differences? How do I merge the two?

In some ways, neither place feels like home. In other ways, both feel like home.

* * *

Perhaps it is as though one had been born blind, until one day you awoke and could see.

It is both beautiful and horrifying. You are overwhelmed. You almost do not know what to do with yourself. You have grown accustomed to perceiving, experiencing and interacting with the world in a certain way. And then suddenly, everything has changed.

* * *

Ultimately, I do not know how to put it into words. I feel as though my world has undergone seismic shifts and drastic transformation, but I do not know how to express it.

I stare at the photos of each biological parent; I cannot even begin to comprehend what has happened—what is happening.

These are the people who conceived me and gave me life—these people whom I have not seen until now, these people whom I have never known until now. They changed my life in profound and irreversible ways, and yet I have not known them or seen them until now.

* * *

I feel lost still.

I do not know what to do with myself.

I feel peace now that I do not have to wonder about the identities of my birth parents. I feel fortunate and relieved to finally know, to have some answers.

And yet I still feel unsettled and restless.

It is not that I expected this to cure anything or to suddenly make all things well.

I didn’t know what to expect quite honestly. I’m simply trying to figure it out along the way.

It is still amazing to me. It is still a dream come true. And yet, it is not a fairy tale. It is not a happily ever after.

It is a happy ending to a seven-year search in the sense that I am happy to find my biological mother and father.

But it is far from being the end. And with just as much happiness that has been stirred has come just as much emotional turmoil.

* * *

My Omma wrote a letter to me recently expressing still so much grief and longing.

She had to watch me leave, not knowing when she might see me again. She wrote that she felt as though she was losing me all over again.

She said she went to the doctor, because she thought she was having heart problems. The doctor said she was fine.

But I understand as much as I am able.

Her heart is still broken. And it is not the kind of broken that any doctor can treat. It is the kind of broken that never finds sufficient remedy or cure.

It is the kind of broken that may mend but will never fully heal.

Yet somehow, I would rather feel that I am broken than harden my heart and never know pain.

To quote a Juliana Hatfield song, A heart that hurts is a heart that works.

I know it’s cliché and a bit melodramatic, but I can at least take comfort, now, in knowing that my melodramatic proclivities as well as my affinity for the sentimental originate not from some random abyss but rather have their origin in the people I now know as Omma and Appa.

elusion

A lot is on my mind and heart right now. I feel heavy.

I watched this program that featured two stories—one from the perspective of a Korean adoptee who was adopted in the 1960’s and one from the perspective of Korean birth parents who had relinquished their daughter in the 1980’s.

Of course, watching the program inevitably made me think of my own story, and in some ways, forced me to think about certain aspects of my journey that I tend to minimize or completely ignore.

* * *

As some of you may know, the search for my biological parents lasted seven years.

Now, when one takes into consideration that the current statistic states that only 2.7% of Korean adoptees who search for their biological families actually find them, I’m one of the “lucky” ones.

At least, I found whom I was seeking, right?

But what some of you may not know is why the search took seven years.

It’s something that I don’t like to think about. I’d rather just accept it as the way things happened.

But, in some ways, not thinking about it is a luxury in which I can indulge, because I eventually got the results for which I was looking.

Had things gone differently, perhaps I would be asking more questions.

In some ways, however, I did ask those questions all along the way, and that may be in part why I was able to finally break through to the other side.

* * *

When I first initiated the search, all I knew about the circumstances that surrounded my adoption was that I had been “found abandoned.”

According to that single sheet of paper, the recorded information stated that my biological mother had given birth to me in a clinic in Seoul. It then stated that the doctor had found me that same day and later referred me to the David Livingstone Adoption Program.

End of story.

All my life this is what I knew. This is all I thought I could ever know.

* * *

But after initiating the search through my adoption agencies, I began to discover that all I had ever known was not the whole truth.

I began to learn that I had to persist and push and ask questions. I had to dig and press and pry. I had to learn not take “no” or “sorry, there is nothing more we can do” for an answer.

I had to keep sniffing and clawing up every tree I could find.

Every once in a while, I’d stir up the perching flock enough that a bird or two would finally squawk. Or a squirrel here or there would venture down and crack an acorn or two open for me.

Needless to say, it was a daunting process.

* * *

My initial inquiry led to about a paragraph of information that was sent to me in an email. (http://yoonsblur.blogspot.com/2008/09/name.html)

When I received this information, I was nothing less than shocked.

What I didn’t understand was that if the doctor had found me abandoned and had been the one to refer me to the agency, how then was the agency able to confer such detailed information upon me.

Information such as number of siblings and ages. Information such as her level of education and employment. Information about how my she and my biological father had met, how long they had dated, and that they had even lived together without being married.

Did my birth mother leave a note with me as she secretly disappeared from the clinic?

When I finally did inquire as to how the agency had come upon this information? It was explained to me that back during the time of my adoption, the language the agency used often referred to abandonment when it was actually relinquishment that had taken place.

Wait? What?

All of sudden, everything changed.

So, wait, my birth mother hadn’t snuck away in the night and left me there in the clinic? Then, what did happen?

I’m still trying to figure that out.

* * *

But this is how the search went. Over seven years, I kept digging and would eventually stumble upon little bits of information that would change everything.

For example, I was told initially that the agency had names and ages for my biological mother’s siblings. When I inquired about the siblings’ names and whether they could release those names to me, that statement was retracted, and I was told that the social worker had made a mistake and that they did not have their names.

I still don’t know what the truth is.

* * *

As I continued to press them for more information by asking detailed questions, little pieces of information would surface. The agency knew in what town my birth parents had lived in. The agency knew the duration of time that my birth parents had lived together--4 months. Again, how did they know all of this, and why did I have to press so hard to get this information?

I also later discovered that the agency had recorded old addresses for my biological mother.

This troubles me even still when I think about it…All these years, they had old addresses, and they never bothered to share this information with me, or even let me know that they had such information in their possession.

The laws. All the laws.

I don’t like to think about these details. I feel as though I’m being ungrateful or negative to bring attention to these obstacles I encountered.

But as I said earlier, I’m one of the 2.7%.

My path was not nearly as difficult as those of others, as that of the Korean adoptee featured in the program I recently watched.

* * *

All that we are asking to know is the truth. The truth that will fill in the missing pieces of who we are.

But so often the truth is taken from us and buried where we cannot reach it.

It should not be this way for us or for anyone.

The truth will continue to elude those who seek it until those who feel compelled to hide it realize that the truth does need their protection.

Rather than lock away the truth, release it--that those whose lives are so affected by it may decide for themselves what they will do.

The Mystery of #4709: Program on false & missing adoption records

The stories featured in this program are heartbreaking & difficult to swallow. But I think it is vital to consider the spectrum of experiences that characterize the adoption experience. To gain an accurate & well-informed understanding of any matter we must be willing to set aside biases to give just consideration to all sides, including the good, the bad, & most importantly, the disturbing...

synchrony

Some days, I’m just fine—as happy and as bright as the sun.

Other days, I realize that this whole process is so much harder than I think it will be.

On days like today—I am constantly on the edge of weeping.

* * *

Every time I try to sit down to write a letter to my birth mother, I am swallowed up by emotions for which I cannot find words.

And although I am reminded of all that has been lost, I try to fight to remind myself that now there is also so much to gain.

It’s just hard.

I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t know what other words to give to it.

My heart simply feels broken.

* * *

One of the hardest elements with which to cope is the fact that my birth parents and I do not share the same language.

I am unable to assign words to how intensely this loss of language affects me. It stirs within me such a depth of grief and pain that I find myself numb and speechless.

I can only weep.

It is an unspeakable loss—no words exist to convey with just potency the loss that swallows me and shuttles me down into a dark and secret place.

There will never be words that are able to tell of the emotion that falls upon me as both light and darkness with such perfect and horrific synchrony.

* * *

I can only fall myself—silent yet overflowing.

It is here that I find for what I was looking, and whom I was seeking—in all its wonder and terror, in all its lucidity and obscurity—this is for what I have been waiting all my life.

* * *

It was and remains worth the wait.

magic

I am struggling.

I feel as though my mind is caged. The words will not emerge. My thoughts feel jumbled and vague. My emotions are rampant and scattered.

I cannot explain what’s happening inside of me.

I feel frustrated. I am distraught and anxious. A restlessness and uneasiness crawl beneath my skin. I feel like I’m going mad.

* * *

But this is the journey I have chosen.

It’s like climbing mountain after mountain. You trudge and trek, day after day, upwardly.

Finally when you reach the top, you feel relieved. You catch your breath. You take in the magnificence. You cannot believe you have made it this far.

You set up camp. The sun seems as though it is closer; the air is crisp and invigorating. Yet as you breathe it in, it rushes through with a coldness that almost makes you lose your breath, and as it rubs against your face, it feels bitter and sharp.

You realize that, eventually, you must begin your descent to make your way toward the next and vast mountain.

* * *

I feel like I have to justify to the world and to myself why this is hard. Why this is bittersweet.

Why I can’t just get over it.

I keep trying to reach for understanding and for illumination. You would not think it to be so slippery and elusive.

This still hurts.

This is still so inexplicably troubling.

What is it that still harrows and afflicts me?

* * *

The limbo.

The middle.

The rip.

Feeling stuck.

Pulled apart.

Divided.

But not of my own accord.

I’ve got to somehow make this work. I can’t stay here. I can’t keep treading water. I’ve got to find dry land.

I’m not a fish.

* * *

Maybe I can metamorphose. Shift. Reconfigure.

Become amphibious.

Then, I will be able to pass between two worlds with the ease that I could never know otherwise.

* * *

Although, I somehow think that I might be better off making a run to the aquatics store to buy a snorkel and some flippers.

And maybe even sign up for a course on scuba diving.

It has not been since I was a little girl that I believed in magic.

* * *

That’s not to say, however, that I don’t still believe in the possibility of what could be encountered as magical.

* * *

For now, I'll continue making my way through the mountains.

I'll continue treading and swimming nearer the shore.

Maybe I am already beginning metamorphosis.

Maybe I am more amphibious than I seem.

Maybe this all just takes time, the kind of time that requires a lifetime.

emerging

I am finally beginning to emerge from the fathomless nebula that has cloaked me since our return from Korea—my eyes still bewildered; my mind still besieged; my heart ever-confounded.

* * *

I feel as though I disappeared into this vast and secret world, to discover that what I had once thought existed only as fantasy had always been waiting for me—tangible and arresting.

I can only compare the wonder and amazement to that of a little girl who might have stumbled her way into the fantastical—gaping mouth and glimmering eyes. And while there, she gazed upon and grasped within her own hands all that she had only ever seen—and longed to touch—in a dream.

I feel as though I could remain in that world forever.

* * *

But I must return.

Yet I am troubled.

How does one return to daily life when everything has changed? When the world has changed? When you have changed?

Adoption is such a misunderstood experience fraught with misconceptions and misinformation due to often well meaning but ultimately wrongful ignorance and presumption.

Therefore, please understand that I mean no disrespect by making the upcoming comparisons, but they are the closest instances at which I can grasp to even attempt to foster understanding of the gravity and intensity of the process of reunion and post-reunion.

The emotional complexities may be somewhat akin to those who return from war.

Life is never the same.

And although, at times, you may feel relieved that the war is over, the loss and the grief remain. No matter what healing or restoration finds its way to you, the tragedy you have endured becomes a part of who you are and who you will become.

It will forever shape you.

* * *

This is not to say that opportunities will not arise that ultimately lead to a full life of new happiness and new dreams. It has been said before that suffering need not be an end, but rather it can be the beginning of a new and daring hope.

Yet, the truth is that no matter what sense you strive to make of it, no matter what happiness you find later, life can never be what it was before—some for worse, some for better.

In a similar way, after entering the reunion and post-reunion process, life will never return to what it was before. Not only so, but it will also continually be defined by the co-existence of the seemingly conflicting emotional experiences of loss and gain, tragedy and redemption, grief and joy.

Although reunion is for what I longed for years and years, although it has brought great relief and comfort, it is also a constant reminder of the pain and alienation that have also characterized the adoption experience for me.

I look into my birth mother’s face and feel joy and relief, while in the same moment a pang of grief and agony writhes within. I gaze into my birth father’s face and feel wonder and peace while at the same time I am reminded of the deep sorrow and angst that simultaneously tore us apart yet has ultimately brought us all here together again.

As those who return from war, they are expected to grieve and to mourn, but eventually they are expected to engage in daily life again, and for practical reasons, they must.

I know I must begin to return. I know I must begin to merge and assimilate these worlds.

Yet, in the same way that those who return from war begin to realize that what they have endured and experienced will never be fully understood by those who were not with them, I also realize that there is no telling of this story that will ever fully elucidate what has unfolded and what will continue to be revealed.

time

Disclaimer: I am going to need A LONG TIME to process this trip to Korea during which I met each of my birth parents. I will try to post what I can, but it is most likely going to be a slow and scattered process.

And some things I may never tell...

* * *

I.

We're finally back to our house. It is absolute chaos.

It looks like our five pieces of luggage exploded all over our house--you'd think I took a hose and sprayed clothing, packages, gifts, shoes, etc. onto the furniture, across the floor, on the ceiling, in the kitchen...

I feel like I am Mayhem--emotionally and physically.

It's going to take some time to get our lives back together. And even more time to begin merging and assimilating these life-altering experiences from the past several weeks into every day life.

Although we were in Korea for only 12 days, I feel as though we've been gone for months, and in some ways, for a lifetime.

II.

Bear with me as I withdraw at times and try to make these experiences my own--before they are inevitably judged and processed by others.

I feel protective of what happened. I wish I could immortalize the memories and keep them safe from the opinions and notions, the ideas and conclusions of those looking on.

So forgive me if I am slow to speak, slow to share what happened.

Give me time...I have waited over three decades for these answers...it may take three more before I understand them...

And even still, I am aware that there are certain answers that may forever elude me...