For many years, I have held onto the weight of my biological family, not sure whether to let go- how to let go- or how to face it. Part of me was convinced that I was okay with being adopted. That I loved the life and person I had become as a result of being adopted. That I was able to manage the fact that I had two families, two mothers, multiple sisters and brothers- only one of which I had ever actually met. I had perpetuated a relationship with them over facebook, conversation and even visits as though they had never 'given me up' and I was raised in an entirely different world from them. I had defended my relationship with them to anybody who felt I should have let them go. I guarded what I had with them... because I was so afraid that giving them up... would mean giving up a piece of me. So, I went about my life living parallel to them- never truly intersecting... only watching and waiting for the other to make the move...
The issue of my biological family has finally reared it's head and demanded it be dealt with. My husband forced their hand. Called them out and they retaliated with all the fury and vigor I had come to recognize as my own... But instead of feeling relieved at their defense of our family... our secret... our unspoken tragedy from all those years ago- I lashed back in defense of my husband. How dare they step to him- how could they? Without even coming to me first? I was outraged... So I tore at them- ripped away the facade that I had allow to exist between us and confronted them with the cold hard facts of all that I had been struggling with- all that I constantly torture myself with every single moment of every single day... Anything that I had ever harbored toward them
I have struggled with being adopted for my entire life. This is perhaps due to the fact that I have known for as long as I can recall conscious thought- that I was adopted. Not only that I was adopted- but that my biological family was still out there... waiting for me some how. This forced a sort of baseless fantasy that they still wanted me- that I was never supposed to be with the family that I was living with- that I had been adopted by. Never mind the fact that I was not mistreated, neglected, or wanted for anything deemed necessary to the health and well-being of a child as determined by social services. I was not unloved- per se- and perhaps, I would have allowed myself to be feel more loved by my adoptive mother- had I not always had this secret nagging that I was merely waiting for my real family to bring me back home to them.
