It's time...

It figures.... I wait until I am looped on phenobarbitol to begin my blog. I created this thing months ago, at the encouragement of a friend, and kept meaning to begin it, but never did. Funny, beginning things is always hard for me, once I'm in it, I can go like gangbusters, but I always have a hard time starting. Particularly if it's something important or meaningful to me, and I am under no illusions anymore, adoption, the topic, the subject, the act is probably the thing that has colored my life the most. As a child, and as an adult. Just a side note, I seem to have no problem ending things, in typical adoptee fashion.

So, here I sit at 6:13am, wondering what's the point. Seriously, I like having a purpose, a mission statement, so to speak, a vision of what the completed project will look like. Frankly, I have no idea. Will this be something just for me, to "get it out" so to speak. Probably not, I do that already, with friends and my trusty journal (Rach, when I die, please burn that thing, m'kay? You're younger than me, and I give you this task. You can read it, in all it's ugly glory) Will it be to educate "civilians" about adoption? About the truth, about what it's like? Maybe. Will it be some weapon of mass destruction towards the money hungry adoption industry? Probably not, I'm under no illusions about my power, but I might be capable of a little "bang" here and there... I'm fiesty, and have a little gunpowder left in me. but I simply don't have the money to wage that war... and it IS about money, don't kid yourselves. Will it be a place where my family of fellow adoptees can maybe relate a little and say "I feel that way too"? I sure hope so. Anyhow, we shall see what comes out. I'm not going to define it yet, I guess, so much for a mission statement, huh?

Some ground rules (and there's only two, I really don't like being edited, so I won't edit you:

We won't be telling adoptees to be "grateful" here. We have heard this enough, truly. Would you be grateful to have lost your identity, your heritage, your parents, your siblings, your opportunity to bond with your mother (serious repercussions) your original birth certificate, your sense of trust and wellbeing in the world?

We won't be calling mother's of adoption loss "birthmothers". I know you're thinking, why not? Isn't that what they are? This is a term used by the adoption industry to coerce young women into relinquishing their children. I didn't know that either, until recently. I have been fortunate enough to come to know some mother's who have educated me about that term, some gently, some not so gently. I find it reprehensible to further hurt those whose lives have been forever altered by adoption. If you are an adoptive parent, you can give them that respect. You will here.

I guess what's next is some background:

I'm an adult adoptee. I was born in Vallejo, CA, my mother's name was Linda White. My father's name was John Crossman. She was 14 or 15 when she gave birth to me, he was 20 or 21 (nice!). I found out these details about 7 (?) years ago when my search for my family finally ended. I was adopted at 15 months old to EJ and Cecelia Connors, and grew up in Vacaville CA. I have a brother, Steve Connors, who is 20 years older than me, so we didn't grow up together, he was in college and then in Viet Nam while I was little. I grew up in a 4 bedroom home, middle class neighborhood, second home on a lake in northern MN. All my needs were taken care of physically, materially. My Dad was an amazing father and friend, I can't imagine not knowing him, and he is responsible for much of the good that is in me (this is part of the paradox inside this adoptee, at least). My adoptive mother was....meh.... she was kinda crazy, very controlling and intrusive, incredibly insecure, and very, very powerful, as only the incredibly insecure can be. I know some of my childhood friends are probably thinking I am being disloyal, or dramatic, but I lived there, and this is simply my truth. She's now 91 and has Alzheimer's, and I hold no resentment anymore (ok, maybe a little).

I never remember being "told" I was adopted. I just always knew. When I asked why, I was told she was very young, that I was in foster care, and they finally told her that she had to make a decision, because I was becoming "too aware" (as if I weren't aware from day one) I was never told why I was in foster care, or what happened. I was told that my parents had tried to adopt for years, and couldn't because my Dad was in the military, and they were never in one place for very long. My parents were significantly older than most (in their mid/late forties).

I searched in secret from the day I was 18. It was like fumbling around in a dark, strange room. I didn't have the internet, or any information, except my own. I didn't know what my name was, or what her name was, only the birthdate and place on my fake birth certificate. So, I signed up for all the registries, went to the Solano County Registrar's office (I'll tell you later, about the dark, black line in the book) and waited, and "did life" as best as I could. At some point, I finally broke into my parent's strong box (adoptee superbastard breaking and entering skills) and found pencilled on an envelope, containing my adoption papers, the names "Carole White" and "Crossman" in my adoptive mother's handwriting. I assumed, somewhat correctly, that these were the names of my natural parents. The name White is a pretty common name, but it was something, and I ran with it, updated all the registries, looked in phone books, fumbled around some more. Finally, in my early forties, a seach angel dropped into my world, and within days, I had names, and phone numbers and it was on. (I'll flesh it all out more in further blogs, I'm on meds, remember? please be patient) Within days, I was speaking to my mother's first husband, who was also the father of my maternal siblings, and learned that my mother had already passed away. The destruction of a dream. The house of cards that was "Tamara" came tumbling down, and I have been picking up the pieces ever since. I'm still working on the foundation, in case you're wondering. Call it my midlife crisis if you will, "crisis" standing alone suffices just fine for me... trying to piece together the who's and the why's and the wtf's.

Reunion's aren't all they're cracked up to be, let me tell ya... fraught with high emotion, secrets uncovered, myriad and sundry versions of the truth... and yep, more rejection. Rejection from both sides. God, I hate that word. I hate to receive it, and I hate it that I am so good at it too. It's built in, and it's damaging, whether on the giving or receiving end. I have family members who are interested in knowing me, who aren't interested in knowing me, who were interested in knowing me for awhile, who I'm not interested in knowing..... it's insane, and I wasn't prepared for it. I'm not sure if I'm prepared now, but I'm trying.

Ok, I'm about wore out, and it's time to head back to bed, and the horrific parade of reruns and talk shows that make up daytime television these days. But before I go, one disclaimer: If you are a member of my natural family or my adoptive family...none of this is meant to hurt you in any way. I am not casting aspersions, or telling lies or being dramatic. I'm just trying to figure me out... to sort out what this thing called adoption has done to us all, because it wasn't just done to me, it was done to you too, just not quite so "front and center". All I ask is that you hear me out with an open mind, or if you can't, be gentle in your judgements. The only thing I want is the truth, and to be well. Maybe that's my mission statement, who knows, I reserve the right to change my mind as it serves me, and the Greater Good.

Be Well~ Tamara

If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found. ~Author Unknown