Speechless

I am not one usually to run out of words. I have been known to be quiet and withdrawn, but the events of the past two days have truly knocked me sideways.

I have been deeply depressed. This is not news. I have been fighting my health problems and feeling suicidal for over six months. I have been suicidal before, but I usually stuffed my feelings down and made it through by making myself numb. I have lived most of my life appearing cheerful, but feeling like a zombie inside.

On Monday night, I finally decided that if I was going to die, I should tell my brother how very angry I was with him. So I sent him a text that basically said that I was sorry I was born and caused such misery to everyone in my nfamily, but that I had expected more from him. Thanks, but no thanks. He won no prizes for being a gentleman.

Shortly after I sent my text, his wife called me. She had refused to answer an e-mail I had sent her last September, and she had left me high and dry after my visit with her in April, after she moved in with my nmother. I picked up, and she asked if I was okay. I said no, I wasn't. She then said that A (my brother) would call me when he could get out of the lab. I said fine, and then told her that I had been horrendously betrayed, that I didn't trust her, and that basically there was nothing left to say. I hung up.

A called a bit later. He asked if I was okay. I said no. I also told him that I was really angry that he hadn't answered my e-mail in October, or bothered to tell me that he had made it home safely from his tour. He said that he was tired of being in the middle (as if *I* put him there!) and that no one in the family was going to have a relationship with me until C and I worked it out. He had told my cousin to stop communicating with me; I had suspected as much when my cousin stopped responding to my texts and messages. The straightjacket of such an arrangement insisting on complete family harmony made no sense to me on multiple levels: I wasn't doing any of the obstructing, and why can't adults have relationships with other adults without the blessing of everyone on the planet? I brought up how honoring thy father and mother doesn't mean committing murder; where do you draw the line? He asked for some time to think, then said he'd call me back. I answered very sarcastically, "When? Six months? A year from now?" He told me he'd call me the next day, and call our mother that night.

I felt sad beyond measure yet again. I really had done nothing but be born into this family of people I couldn't begin to understand. I wasn't asking for anything more than friendship and respect. I cried, lay in the fetal position, felt more alone than ever, and wondered what in the hell I had done to deserve such treatment. And sadly, this kind of thing is not foreign to me, in love relationships, friendships, and otherwise. You'd think I could find a pattern in myself and fix it, and I've tried, but there is no way I could have created this situation with my nfamily. If anything, my problem is being stubborn and not letting go, but I think I hold onto things for a reason.

So I got the kids ready for bed, took a Xanax to help me sleep, and woke up at midnight with my body and emotions in a knot. I checked my phone and noticed that C had called me. Great, I thought. I am going to get reamed again for contacting someone or upsetting A.

The next morning, I was getting the kids ready for school and saw that C had called again. I couldn't pick up because I was too busy tracking down shoes and jackets and homework and trying to get Tobey to brush his hair. I had an appointment right after I dropped off the kids, and hashed it over on the phone with a friend who is trying to get over a breakup. He advised me to do as he is trying to do, simply to walk away. But I couldn't, I just couldn't.

I got home, arranged myself with Kleenex, a warm blanket, the dog, and the phone, and then called C. She picked up immediately and began to ask what was wrong, why I felt so bad, and what could be done to change it. I told her that I'd been unhappy pretty much all of my life, stumbling through it, never valuing myself. I asked her the three questions I'd forgotten to ask last time: Did she hold me? No. Did she name me? No. Did she listen to Edith Piaf while pregnant with me? No. We talked about how she was drugged for my delivery and doesn't remember anything of it. She was horrified to learn that I'd been in the NICU without a primary caretaker for six weeks; she'd been promised I'd go home with a family right away. She was angry to learn that the agency had lied to my parents about her prenatal care and about my father. She told me about hiding her pregnancy so successfully that she did her whole semester of student teaching and no one noticed. She told me about the day she screwed up the courage to tell her parents that she was pregnant with me.

Our conversation flowed for over an hour. She wanted to know about my parents, my childhood, my experiences. We joked about how we both suck at housework and would rather read books. How we're stubborn and good liars. We compared medications for depression, she asked about my boys, and we talked about how marriage is really hard. I told her that I'd left flowers for her father, and she was happy that I had done so. I asked why he had no flowers while the other family members in the cemetery did, and she said that she kept meaning to do it on her visits, but never got around to it.

At one point she said, "This is a nice conversation. Look, we can talk without yelling at each other!" I agreed. She said that she didn't feel like my mom, but that she would be interested in pursuing a friendship. She encouraged me to call her if I felt sad. I really *want* to talk to her. We do have a lot in common. It was so odd but wonderful to have shoved all the garbage off the table and to be able to interact just as people.

She told me that she had told A that she had no problems with our relationship, but that he insisted on this whole family reconciliation thing. She told me that she'd call him to clarify, and she told me to text my cousin saying that I'd spoken with Aunt C and that she was absolutely fine with him getting to know me. My cousin texted back and said, "Thank God! What a load off." C explained that my aunt and uncle want to approach me, but aren't quite ready yet. I think it's a relief for C now that everyone in the family knows. We can move ahead, take things slowly, and be friends--I hope. I never thought I would be able to say that. It feels wonderful.

A and I are figuring things out. I was so angry, angrier than I had originally thought I was. All those months I fretted about having him back in my life and wondering what I'd done--while knowing I had done nothing except exist. The enormity of his betrayal ripped me to shreds. It will take a long time for me to be able to trust him again, although I really want to get there. I asked him if he'd come visit me so that we can spend time together and reestablish our footing. He agreed, and will hopefully get up this way the weekend after next. My boys are thrilled: Callum said, "I think Uncle A owes me an apology, but then I want to hug him." Tobey just said, "I can't wait to meet him and show him all my Lego. And thank him for Alfie [the Elf on the Shelf A gave the kids last year]."

A assured me that he feels terrible for what he did, and that all of what happened was because of the situation, not because of me. Sound familiar? Oh yes, the situation that *is* me and for which I get punished, over and over and over and over....

But mostly I can't wait to hug him and cry and be happy that he's home safe and sound from Afghanistan. I also told him that he's too Southern and military and has to stop saying, "Yes, ma'am," to me unless he's teasing me as my little brother. I am too young to be "Ma'am."

So things are better, I guess, although I can't decide if this is actually my life or I woke up as someone else yesterday.

Only Connect

It was a Wednesday morning in early September. Callum, my elder son, was already back in school. Tobey, the younger, had another week off. We had stopped to visit a friend of his, and at 10 a.m., I found myself at a new dog park in Oakland supervising my dog and two children as they played in mud. I was getting my bearings when the phone rang. It was C's number.

I broke out into a cold sweat. I wasn't sure if it was C, her husband, a friend, or a pastor. I was certain that the message couldn't be good, though, and didn't have the strength to handle it without backup. I didn't want to break down in front of Tobey and his friend. I figured C had to be calling in response to the message I'd sent to M two days previously. I let the call go to voicemail and then immediately rang my beloved friend N, and texted my great adoptee friend Linda for advice. I knew I couldn't listen to the message. I saw it there on my phone, blinking and mocking me. Resourceful N came up with a plan, because I was paralyzed. She told me to come to her house at 2 p.m.; she would listen to the message, relay its contents to me, and then hold my hand as I listened to it.

The minutes ticked slowly by. I made my way to N's house. I gave her my phone and went to hide in the bathroom with my hands over my ears. I knew the message would cut me to the core and touch my deepest wounds. N listened thoughtfully and came to get me. She told me that in her estimation, it wasn't a bad message. She felt that C sounded frustrated, but not angry. I couldn't imagine that to be so. I returned to the bathroom so that N could play the message for Mark. It was brutal to know that my phone had captured the voice of the woman who gave birth to me, the same woman who cursed my very existence. It's quite a terrible thing to be hated by your own flesh and blood, for nothing you've done except be born.

N spoke calmly to me and eventually coaxed me to listen. She held my hand and pressed the button. A tired, and yes, frustrated--but also angry--voice articulated the following:

I hope this is Kara [pronounced incorrectly, of course]. I am calling from Mississippi to tell you to PLEASE STOP. I have answered all of your questions. My brother called me to tell me you sent him an e-mail; my mother is elderly and you will give her a heart attack. PLEASE stop. I'm asking you one more time, PLEASE STOP.


I felt for her. I understood how hard it must be to dredge up things long buried. Although most people assume I've never thought about her feelings, and urge me to do so, I've pretty much done nothing else for years. Weighing my needs against her pain, hating to hurt her. But at the same time, I was--and am--her child. Surrendering me did not sever the ties we share in blood. We had never spoken. She had never answered ANY of my questions except for the brief medical history the CI had taken by phone, and that had been incomplete. Willfully so. How had she convinced herself that she owed me nothing, that I mattered so little?

I winced at the disparity in our voices; I was raised north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and she below it. Had she kept me, my accent would have been the same as hers. It hurt to feel that this, the first time she addressed me by name, was in such a sharp, sad way. I wasn't welcomed, wasn't thought of with love. There was no homecoming, no sense of continuity. I was denied the reunion I had dreamed of; I had suffered the loss of C as an infant, and I suffered the loss of the relationship I had hoped for as I began to search.

And yet, for the first time, we had connected. She called me, spoke to me. I hadn't been ignored. She didn't acknowledge my feelings, but she put more of herself out there than she'd ever been willing to do previously. The question was, "What next?"

I paced the floors and spoke with friends. I wished I could have a friend call C for me, pretending to be me. I was frightened that I might be wounded even more harshly if she hung up on me or turned me away. I knew, however, that there was really no other choice than to call her myself, open myself up, and ask for the name of my father. I wanted to do so very soon, as well; I didn't want her to think that she'd succeeded in scaring me off or that I believed that I didn't belong. No way, not this woman. My time for sitting in the background was over. N offered to have me call from her house, while she held my hand, the following morning. There was no way I could sleep that night.

Searching, Part I

Searching for me was a process. Getting to the point of deciding to do something took a long time. Having courage and money and support was part of it. I had to be in a place where I knew I wouldn't be shattered if the response was negative. That said, I really wanted to know who I was before I was the me that all my friends and family know. It sounds very complicated, and in some ways it is. I was worried also about hurting my aparents, whom I love with all my heart. I felt disloyal to them by opening up this can of worms. But it was my can of worms, and there was no escaping its presence in the front of my mind. 

I remember finding my Pre-Adoptive Agreement in my aparents' file cabinet, in a manila folder labeled "Adoption," when I was 12. The agreement named me as "Baby Girl Neuman." I had a last name! At least I assumed it was my last name; who would make up "Neuman"? More on that later.  I rolled the name around my brain and imagined being a "Neuman." It gave me something concrete, although it was only a fragment of what I wanted to know. 

Although I always wanted to search, I had neither the time, inclination, or outward push to make it happen until I was in my mid-twenties. For a number of years in the 1990's, I lived in Berkeley, where I was working on a Ph.D. in art history at Cal. One of my housemates was a woman my age who had also been adopted. She was interested in what it meant to be adopted and invited me to go to an adoptee support group with her. We talked about what it meant to be adopted, and I read some foundational books in adoption psychology that began to help me normalize my emotional experiences. I was envious of those who had found their families and seemed to be more at peace with themselves. 

The members of PACER, the support group, encouraged me to write off for my non-identifying information, which I did in 1997 after having to ask my adoptive parents notarize a permission slip to verify that they approved of my desire to search. It was infantilizing to have my wishes and opinions count for nothing. A "no" from my parents would have barred the path forward, but I was relieved when they readily agreed. I paid $75, and two weeks later received six sheets of paper that summarized who I was before my parents brought me home, before I became the person attached to my aparents and my family. When I began my first reinvention of self at the ripe old age of 10 weeks. I read the physical descriptions of my first mother, first father, my first mother's parents, and the circumstances of my birth, over and over. I began to give myself permission to imagine who these ghostly people were. I wondered if they ever thought about me. 

I was adopted in a state that in extremely restrictive in terms of adoption laws. Missouri mandates the use of confidential intermediaries (CIs) to make contact. I didn't have the money to pay for this service until several years later, when I was married and more financially stable. I called the court, filled out forms, and waited for the agency to contact me. I wrote a $350 check to the CI, and gave her a letter I wanted her to read to my first parents. Then I waited for what seemed like five interminable months. At last she called me. 

"I don't have good news, I am afraid," the CI said. "Your birthmother would barely speak to me, and just kept repeating, 'I knew this day would come,' and 'I don't want to know.'" I felt all the blood drain from my face. I cried. The CI encouraged me to let move on. "I could try calling her again, but I doubt she'd change her answer. You can try again in three years." "Okay," I answered. I am ever the compliant adoptee. 

Three years went by. Then another five. I had two children. I was sick. Part of my being sick had to do with a hereditary blood disorder that I knew I'd inherited from my first mom, so I screwed up the courage to get back on the searching carousel. I called the court again, filled out the papers, sent off my check for $450. I wrote a new letter for the CI to read to my first parents, and enclosed a detailed medical history questionnaire. Then the painful wait began anew. I called the CI after two months. After four months. 

Five months later, I received an unbelievably cruel letter from the CI, which ended on this lovely note: "It seems like your birth mother has gone to great lengths to make sure she wouldn't be found or contacted again, and I feel it's time to give up all attempts at finding her. I have $81 in out-of-pocket expenses. Please send a check to…" This was unacceptable. I flew into a rage. She had found her eight years ago! What could have happened? And blaming me? Unconscionable! I called the CI, was uncharacteristically irate and let her have it with both barrels, and then asked her to read through my file again and tell me everything she could, IMMEDIATELY. She did, and then sent me a new summary of non-identifying information. And you know what? She called back to tell me that she'd misspelled my first mother's last name and had found her, after all. I swear up and down, without any proof, that the CI is a first mother herself. She was far too protective of my fmom and rude about what I was doing legally. I am sure there's a conflict of interest in there somewhere. Either that, or she is the most pathetically unprofessional woman EVER. Maybe both.

The overall result of the second phone call was the same; my first mother desired no contact, although I got a little bit more medical history and found out that I had possible siblings and my grandfather had died. I sighed. I felt so alone and so unwanted by people whom I desperately wanted to love me back--or at least acknowledge that I exist. I felt powerless and isolated. Civilians (the nonadopted) didn't know what to say or how to help me. I folded in on myself and tried to put one foot in front of the other. To convince myself I was okay not knowing, which wasn't true. I couldn't lie to myself anymore.