TRIAD musings
I am part of what is called in Adoption Circles "the triad". The triad consists of the birth mother, the adopting family and the baby.
In my case I am an adoptee (baby) and a birth mother.
Of course, this makes it more complicated than the usual. An adoptee has their own set of challenges - a gigantic tragic loss of their mother (and other family) at birth, transition to a new family, wondering why they were relinquished (nice word for being abandoned), wondering who their birth family is and what is their real background, etc? And no one ever looks like you, you have no birth story to speak of and yet those questions are asked constantly. "What nationality are you? Who do you look like? Where did you get your name?" Etc....it's actually surprising how often we talk about bloodlines and pedigrees and background and ethnicity as people. Certainly as children it seemed to be a constant topic of conversations.
As an adoptee, sometimes I answered as though I was actually related to my adoptive parents, even though I knew it was a lie. And sometimes I answered with the little information I had discovered in the box containing my adoption papers - I knew my mother was of French Canadian and First Nations and Irish blood, and my father was 2nd generation Irish. I tried to claim that but inside it all felt false, like a made up story. I felt as though I had been discovered under a rock since I had no birth story to relate. No one was happy when I was born. It was only trauma and sadness and loss and a "shame".
Birth mother: In a way, this was easier although even more painful. I was alert and aware it was happening. It was my body that was pregnant, and my body that gave birth. I was in the room, although the doctors did not want me to "interfere" (their actual words) while I gave birth. To insure no interference, they strapped my legs to the stirrups and my arms to the table. Seriously. In 1970. In Spokane's Sacred Heart Catholic Hospital. Like it was the Spanish Inquisition. It's still kind of unbelievable to me but I was there and I experienced it. That way I could not accidentally touch my baby, since it was not considered mine because adoption had been decided upon for this baby.
Decided. AS if I had a decision. I was told if I kept the baby I would lose my entire (adopted) family. They would not allow me to use their last name anymore, I could not live in Seattle, I could not see or talk to them, they would not help me in any way with money or support of any kind. I would be banished. But sure - it was MY decision. I checked and there was no welfare available to me. I had no job or skills or even friends since I had been banished to Spokane to a unwed mothers' home for the duration and was not allowed to talk to any of my friends or boyfriend. IN fact, I was also required to change my last name while in Spokane in case anyone who knew my adoptive parents were to run across me. Apparently they would have been mortified. I never understood this since what had my being pregnant got to do with them anyway? Having sex was definitely my decision.
So I "relinquished" my gorgeous curly haired dimpled baby and then went on to get drunk every single day the rest of that summer. I had tons of milk and my breasts ached every morning. I had to pump to get rid of some of the milk. I felt fat and ugly and definately unloved and unloveable. I finally returned home to adoptive family's house but moved out after 2 weeks into a foster home. It was untenable. They wanted to pretend nothing had happened. The hugest tragedy in a person's life - losing a child - and they wanted me to pretend it had not happened. That is when I knew for sure they were both insane. Clinically insane. Every kind of insane. Cruelly insane. Cruel. I knew then they hated me also.
So I went into foster care and it was such a relief. No one yelling or restricting me. They talked to me like I was a real person. I don't think I actually relaxed for several months, but I felt safe there. They had a lovely toddler named Amy who I doted on, and two adorable little schnauzers too. They let me smoke in the house, since the dad smoked too. I actually started to catch up on my schoolwork and started to feel like a normal teenager again. I was of course changed, and sad, and I will never fully recover from the loss but I did develop scars I think. Nice, thick scars, hidden in a place where I did not have to look at them for a very, very long time.
In my case I am an adoptee (baby) and a birth mother.
Of course, this makes it more complicated than the usual. An adoptee has their own set of challenges - a gigantic tragic loss of their mother (and other family) at birth, transition to a new family, wondering why they were relinquished (nice word for being abandoned), wondering who their birth family is and what is their real background, etc? And no one ever looks like you, you have no birth story to speak of and yet those questions are asked constantly. "What nationality are you? Who do you look like? Where did you get your name?" Etc....it's actually surprising how often we talk about bloodlines and pedigrees and background and ethnicity as people. Certainly as children it seemed to be a constant topic of conversations.
As an adoptee, sometimes I answered as though I was actually related to my adoptive parents, even though I knew it was a lie. And sometimes I answered with the little information I had discovered in the box containing my adoption papers - I knew my mother was of French Canadian and First Nations and Irish blood, and my father was 2nd generation Irish. I tried to claim that but inside it all felt false, like a made up story. I felt as though I had been discovered under a rock since I had no birth story to relate. No one was happy when I was born. It was only trauma and sadness and loss and a "shame".
Birth mother: In a way, this was easier although even more painful. I was alert and aware it was happening. It was my body that was pregnant, and my body that gave birth. I was in the room, although the doctors did not want me to "interfere" (their actual words) while I gave birth. To insure no interference, they strapped my legs to the stirrups and my arms to the table. Seriously. In 1970. In Spokane's Sacred Heart Catholic Hospital. Like it was the Spanish Inquisition. It's still kind of unbelievable to me but I was there and I experienced it. That way I could not accidentally touch my baby, since it was not considered mine because adoption had been decided upon for this baby.
Decided. AS if I had a decision. I was told if I kept the baby I would lose my entire (adopted) family. They would not allow me to use their last name anymore, I could not live in Seattle, I could not see or talk to them, they would not help me in any way with money or support of any kind. I would be banished. But sure - it was MY decision. I checked and there was no welfare available to me. I had no job or skills or even friends since I had been banished to Spokane to a unwed mothers' home for the duration and was not allowed to talk to any of my friends or boyfriend. IN fact, I was also required to change my last name while in Spokane in case anyone who knew my adoptive parents were to run across me. Apparently they would have been mortified. I never understood this since what had my being pregnant got to do with them anyway? Having sex was definitely my decision.
So I "relinquished" my gorgeous curly haired dimpled baby and then went on to get drunk every single day the rest of that summer. I had tons of milk and my breasts ached every morning. I had to pump to get rid of some of the milk. I felt fat and ugly and definately unloved and unloveable. I finally returned home to adoptive family's house but moved out after 2 weeks into a foster home. It was untenable. They wanted to pretend nothing had happened. The hugest tragedy in a person's life - losing a child - and they wanted me to pretend it had not happened. That is when I knew for sure they were both insane. Clinically insane. Every kind of insane. Cruelly insane. Cruel. I knew then they hated me also.
So I went into foster care and it was such a relief. No one yelling or restricting me. They talked to me like I was a real person. I don't think I actually relaxed for several months, but I felt safe there. They had a lovely toddler named Amy who I doted on, and two adorable little schnauzers too. They let me smoke in the house, since the dad smoked too. I actually started to catch up on my schoolwork and started to feel like a normal teenager again. I was of course changed, and sad, and I will never fully recover from the loss but I did develop scars I think. Nice, thick scars, hidden in a place where I did not have to look at them for a very, very long time.
I have never heard the depths of this story. This is heartbreaking and makes me cry. This is beautiful.
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