As the Crow Flies.
My grief over feeling lied to about adoption.
I recently read a quote by fellow adoptee and writer, Lisa Olivera. She said, “How much grief comes with realizing you can never convince anyone of who you are, but perhaps even more when you forget you shouldn’t need to convince them.”
Whew!
This quote hit y’all and was especially timely considering some things that have recently come up for me as I fundraise for BIPOC Adoptees, the nonprofit organization that saved my life.
…to be understood by society as a marginalized group that requires care and reparation.
I was armed with stacks of handouts and a positive attitude when we set out to do some “cold-call” style fundraising efforts. We were in a fun and funky part of the city and planned to work our way up and down the street asking for auction items. Our organization is planning a Gala and silent auction during November, or NAAM: National Adoption Adoptee1 Awareness Month. We had dropped off only a few handouts when it struck me that these people absolutely do not understand. It was as if they were looking at us and wondering, “what do these two - seemingly full functioning adults -need help with?”
I’m guessing that if you don’t spend your life thinking about adoption or hadn’t thought about adoption outside of the mainstream adoption narrative than you would have trouble seeing how an adult adoptee might need some support. On top of that, many of us adoptees are incredibly high functioning in our disorders because we’ve had a lifetime of practice! Sometimes it’s not so easy to see.
As I’ve written about previously in my blog…the mainstream narrative of adoption goes something like this: “You are lucky, adoptee, because you were saved by a nice couple2 that had access to education and other resources that your unworthy and completely trash birth mother/family did not have.” In fact, I was yelled at3 just last week by a biological aunt because I dared to complain about my adoption. She reminded me that I wouldn’t’ have the education I have or the husband I have if it weren’t for adoption4. This is the same woman that told me I would have been sexually abused if I had stayed in her family as well. It all feels like a threat.
I have also shared, previously, that even my adoptive family firmly believes the narrative. I’ve had family members say all the things to me, “you completed the family,” “you were loved,” “we are family,” “we had an idyllic childhood,” etc. as though any of those things erase the pain of adoption. In fact, most of the time my adoptive family wants to erase my ancestry or ignore it. It doesn’t always feel familial to not be seen or heard.
When I am forced to disclose this incredibly personal and private information to all medical and dental personnel, I am often met with a, “ Oh! My bestie adopted! That’s so wonderful! You’re so lucky!” or maybe a, “Oh man. Adoption is such a saving grace for kids! I’ve heard of some terrible abusive situations where kids were completely saved by adoption!”
The reality of adoption is just so much more complex and I wish that was the mainstream narrative.
So, yeah. I am constantly trying to convince everyone of who I am. Who an adoptee is (or might become). I have to defend my humanity, a lot. Just to get the mental health help I need. Just to get the right care. Just to be understood by society as a marginalized group that requires care and reparation. We need repair. Of the system of foster care and adoption. Of our sometimes broken and fractured selves.
Growing up, I forced myself to believe the narrative. I remember being so afraid of being made to join another family, that anytime I had a negative thought about my adoption…I shoved it down as deep as it would go. When my Dad forced me, at a very young age, to help him work all day in the heat, or when I spent all day cleaning the house while my sister was off with friends5, I often thought, “is this why they adopted me?”6 This - dear reader - is the reality of adoption.
I am realizing I have so much grief and weight around having to prove myself, my humanity and who I am to everyone around me…and not just as an adoptee. I am no longer Lisa Marko or even Lisa MacLellan. I have to prove - over and over - who I am becoming in terms of my identity.
The grief and weight I feel around forgetting that I shouldn’t even need to prove myself or convince others of my humanity is deeply intersected with my adoption. In another life, I wouldn’t have had to prove anything. In another life, I wouldn’t have to tell strangers my private business all the time. In another life, maybe I would not have had to completely erase myself.
I don’t feel like I have the same access to myself that those who are kept naturally do. I don’t feel like I have the same access to myself that I give others. I feel like I’ve been lied to. All of us have. We’ve been told adoption is beautiful. Period. And that just isn’t the case. Can it be? Yes. I have some really beautiful and fond memories. My family once waited out a deadly flood and tornado that hit my hometown, together, in a family friend’s basement. I remember being so scared but also having fun. We played games. We ate junk food and candy. I felt as safe as I could. I remember being thankful we were all together as a family unit - it felt more secure that way.
The reality of adoption is just so much more complex and I wish that was the mainstream narrative. I wish it was normal for people to not speak about adoption7 unless they themselves are adopted or have been in the foster youth system. I wish when someone learned I was adopted they might say, “oh wow, I’m sorry, I know that can be a traumatic experience, thank you for sharing that” instead of, “oh good for you, that’s so lucky,” or even, “why did’t your parents want you,” or “you’re so lucky you have two Moms.”
I have these things to say:
Adoption isn’t considered traumatic so my doctors often don’t take it’s impacts on my body and mind seriously.
Adoption is considered an antidote to abortion so my existence has become politicized and it is spoken about by those who do not have the lived experience as an adoptee. Even worse - it is often spoken about only by those who actually benefit: the agencies and adoptive parents.
Adoption is considered life-saving, when the reality is that adoptees are 4x as likely to die by suicide than the average person. I’ve been low grade suicidal my entire life.
Adoptees are considered lucky when it is not just by luck or happen stance that we were adopted, adoption is an industry and we are the commodity - there isn’t luck in that, that is purposeful distribution.
Adoption isn’t considered an industry, but it is. Perhaps it’s because that makes the commodity too obvious? That makes people too uncomfortable? To admit kids are a commodity in adoption?
And that is why I ultimately feel lied to. My adoption was in the interest of the narrative.
Of the industry.
Not me.
That I got my Mom, my husband, my education, my privilege, my access to generational wealth…is not the point. That, was luck.
Let’s be real. We are aware of adoption. What we aren’t aware of is the adoptee experience.
White couple, in my case, and in the case of many Black and brown adoptees.
It was yelling through writing, but still. We all know when we’re being yelled at, even if it is through text.
I have a few things to say here: 1. Marriage isn’t a value. 2. Yes, I am married, and yes, I love Ryan. But he is not worth having my entire life taken from me. I’d like to think if it was meant to be, we would have made our way to each other no matter what. 3. My education is 10000000% not worth it. I don’t even value academics in the same way anymore.
My sister had responsibilities too, I am sure. I was like 5-8 maybe when I have these memories so I don’t know why she wasn’t there. These were just my thoughts at the time.
This memory sucks for me. I had long forgotten about these feelings and thoughts, but I remember them so vividly now. I remember literally thinking I was adopted to work for my family. My Dad was really mean when I was a kid. I mean, mean. For those of you reading this and maybe are thinking, “I knew your Dad, he wasn’t mean…” well one time he told me and my brother he’d break our “fucking legs” if we didn’t stop climbing on something in the yard. He said and did shit like this until I was maybe in middle school. It terrified me. He actually terrified me for so long. I was highly highly attuned to his mood as a child. I was also highly, highly motivated to not be the recipient of his anger. I was a straight A student, I played all the sports, I modeled myself after my sister and anyone else I thought he admired. I liked all the same things he did. I made myself his favorite because I feared him.
Or anything else you have no experience or familiarity with. It’s ok to listen and not speak.