Half Secrets and other dilemmas

I've been pondering over the last few days (actually...more likely months, possibly even years – but I digress) the best way to tell the story of searching for my birth mother. Oh where to start on this twisted, sometimes rocky, occasionally thrilling and always emotional journey? Or is it better described as a quest? That always sounds so heroic and noble though doesn't it? And I'm neither of those. Not by a long shot.

But what I am is determined, teetering on the edge of bloody-minded. It’s a family trait, as I have now discovered.

 I'm also well aware that I am not alone; that thousands of people have also gone through much searching and dissecting of souls and gnashings of teeth before making similar decisions (or even quite different ones) with that burning, gnawing need to know controlling and consuming their lives. Sometimes this is open and public, oft times though it is as secretive and shameful to us as the initial process all those years ago.

Recent reports and subsequent apologies by various levels of governments and organisations regarding forced adoption practices highlight how widespread the pain has been for many. Watching the Four Corners program a few months ago was grim viewing. It was also hit very close to home. More on that at another time.

Anyway, I've decided that the way forward with this story is to go back; the easiest way being to allow you into some of my writings leading up to that momentous decision to seek out my mother. So, this first extract was written about 4 years ago, in the depths of the winter of 2008. In a way it was a blog post that never saw the light of day beyond a very small group...until now...and it gives you just a little insight into where my head was at the time.

Ok. So, I'm sitting here listening to the rain on the roof and doing a little happy dance because we rely on tank water and eating toast and honey in quantities beyond what could be considered either healthy or necessary…but I just don’t care! What a rebel…

And I'm pondering the big things in life as well as the little things – big things…like…what to cook for tea, where the hell is soccer played tomorrow, why does the ironing basket jump out and trip me up every time I walk past it, is this what it feels like to be a single mum (BB won’t be home til midnight )

And the little things…the minor matters of…secrets...and lies...because, after all – lying by omission is something I've grown up with and at which I've become very adept. I have been taught well by a society that in some ways has insisted upon it. That, my friends, was part of the deal.

You see….and I can’t believe I'm putting this out there for public consumption… the half truth I've carried with me carefully tucked away from most and unacknowledged by some is that I'm adopted.

There you go; the A word. No big deal I hear some of you say. Well…no…I guess it isn't  Like a lot of things, it seems ok and easy and what’s your problem…when it’s not you.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t had a bad life. I know I was desperately wanted (especially by my adoptive Mum and she couldn't love me any more than if she had given birth to me) and I didn't find out about it later when it might have come as a shock and undermined who I thought I was etc.  I've always known. And everyone from my family and the people I grew up with knew…but the older I got and the wider the circle of friends, the less it was acknowledged and the more it receded until it shrunk into the shadows and turned into this secret. Something to be kept hidden. Nobody talked about it, least of all me. I just so desperately wanted to be like everybody else. I didn't want to have something that set me apart. And that’s what my family wanted too. In fact…to this day…I know my sister (long story best saved for another day…suffice to say she’s older and my Mum’s biological daughter and my Dad’s stepdaughter and we have always been treated the same so no issue there) but she has never told her sons who are now grown up and it almost seems pointless to do so now. See…she didn't want them viewing me any differently…sweet sentiment, but really, what that means is… for her…at some level, I'm not real family. I know she loves me in her own way but..its not enough damn it!

 I'm not enough. There. I've said it.

 Another earth shattering realisation for the little girl who just wants to be loved, but more importantly, belong.

And a cousin who has always, always adored me – I know that – well, the other day she was sending some family tree stuff to some distant relo and when I printed it off for my Mum…well…I wasn't on it…so you see, love me she may, but I'm not blood related so for things such as family trees, I've been judiciously pruned. Dead wood. Perhaps a trifle unsettling to the overall balance of said tree? Who knows? All I know is, I don't count.

And of course, you know all axe murderers, serial rapists and psychopaths are adopted don’t you? At least, that was the stand my mother in law always took until she found out – had to tell her one day as my Mum and sister both battled breast cancer and she was concerned for me because of family predisposition so we had to tell so they wouldn't worry – and bingo…she never said another negative word about adoptees…still thinks it though. I know her too well. I'm sure she looks for the tell-tale signs in me from time to time.

So really, other than telling my partner when we got serious, because that’s what you do isn't it? -I had said nothing to anyone up until the whole cancer thing and then, what with friends being concerned as well as the in laws I sort of was forced to say something to some of them, but I still have people who don’t know and I have very mixed feelings about the whole thing.

Because it doesn't matter what you say…people look at you differently. They can’t help it. You become a curiosity. For some, it’s quite subtle, with others it’s a marked difference and all of a sudden there’s things they don’t talk about in front of you, jokes they don’t make…or worse, blunt questions asked you haven’t even wanted to answer to yourself, never mind to the outside world…it just gets fucking awkward because they’re scared to upset you or remind you of where you come from. And where is that exactly? Who the hell am I? Why do I look like I do, why do I like the things I do, where do my talents (and my inherent faults) come from? When you know those answers, the questions seem trivial, but believe me, when you’re in the dark about your roots, it becomes all-consuming.

That aside, I reckon I could've taken the half-secret to my grave until I had children. That’s when it changed for me. That’s when living a half-truth with another name and an assumed life became difficult. That’s when my identity crisis really hit. That’s also when abandonment issues reared their ugly Medusa-like heads.

I know my original name. I know where I was born and where she came from. I know my birth mother was very young. I don’t know her name. I know I have her hair colour. I know it wasn't entirely her decision, that family pressure was huge. And that used to be enough. More than enough. Almost too much information.

But now I need more.

Why did it happen? 

How did it happen? 

Who was my father and why did he abandon her? 

Did he abandon her? Abandon us? (I have issues with men btw that stem from that and having a less than ideal father now)

 Do I have other family - brothers and sisters? 

Should I be as angry as I am with my grandparents for forcing her hand? I realise times were different in 1960, but I still struggle with that. 

Do I really want to know? 

Well, yes…but it scares the shit out of me too. 

Am I her big fat secret?

 Does she ever think about me the way I think about her?

 Does her family now know about me? 

Do they know what she went through? 

Would me making contact just be too traumatic for all of us? 

Is she even still alive? 

I want her to know I'm ok, that I was loved and cared for, but that I miss being a part of her life.

I want her to know she has two beautiful granddaughters.

I want her to know I don’t hate her.

But I can’t do it. Not yet.

I don’t really know why. I think it’s more about my head-space and how I'm dealing with it than anything else, and it may not be a big deal to the outside world, but on Planet Billy it’s a storm that subsides and then rebuilds, somewhere off the coast before coming in to wreak a little havoc from time to time. 

But I'm also thinking there is only so much room in one’s head and heart for secrets…and we've all got them, some trivial ones and some…well they just take up too much space. So I'm thinking at the moment, with the support of my fabulous husband, who knows me sometimes better than I know myself, and certainly knows all of this stuff, that I'll treat my birth status not so much as a secret, but as information supplied purely on a need to know basis. No need to get the t-shirts printed but no need to sit on the lid of an overfull suitcase of those things undisclosed, just to keep it from spilling out.

And right now I feel like those who need to know, do.

Well, that was how I saw it in 2008 - how I had seen it most of my adult life - but that low pressure system lurking off the coast of my safe little world of denial was building up a head of steam and it was only a matter of time before the storm clouds would gather and cause me to change my mind, once and for all.

To be continued...