Part of the story I was told about my infancy included the tale of how colic I was. My parents would stay up with me for hours. Rocking, singing, pacing. They would fall asleep with pillows propping up their arms should they fall asleep with me in their arms.
The other part of my story is how my parents adopted me at 12 days old. They were told my mother wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep me or not. When I spoke with her she told me she had held me and named me during this time.
My infant mind had only known one reality for 9 months and 12 days. My infant mind only knew her.
To this day it feels as though my world is ending when I experience a loss. Like my insides are peeling away from my skin and my skin burns when it is touched. My life has been a rehearsal of connection and abandonment, disappearing and seeping into others because I don’t know what blood connection is.
So when she tells me she is going to call me on Monday. Even when she promises I tell myself it isn’t going to hurt if she doesn’t because I have been preparing for her to leave again my whole life.
I think I spoke with home. She is home. She knew me and loved me first and I could hear it in her voice.
And my adopted mind wonders if she means it…despite knowing nothing else has ever felt more like truth.
She says she knew we would find each other again and I realize she is speaking what I already knew as well.
And my adopted mind is sure that last text crossed a line and she is rethinking ever answering my request for contact.
Because if you were really worth it she would have never left
This is the post excerpt.
I learned in women’s studies that to name something is to have power over it. If you can name something, it no longer has power over you. As an adoptee all identifying information is forbidden. Anything that could potentially identify our origins…name them… is blacked out. Like it is too shameful for the light of day. It’s almost like they know a preverbal trauma needs words. Tell me again how adoption is altruistically in the best interest of the baby. We were babies. So we are denied names. Forever powerless. Like we were never meant to have the control in the first place.
I paid my money. I filled out my papers. Unnecessary reasons to know myself deeper. I answered their questions.
I got her name…