The last couple of days have been wrought with some downright scary thoughts. I’ve traveled to some pretty intense destinations within my mind, and well, I’ve really wondered how I would ever claw my way back from the pit I’d fallen into. I am that deep in this pit of self-loathing right now that I am starting to wonder if there is anyway to get out of this thinking, or out of this feeling.

You see, I fell into this pit last year. When I sat down with the agency worker, who delivered a set of news that rocked my world, and caused me to hate myself more than I had ever hated myself before. I told some people what I was told that day- my therapist who watched me crumble in away that I have never let anyone see me do before, The Hubby, my best friend, and my parents. I later spoke to some experts in the field to find out details that hadn’t been included in the information I was given, and spoke about my reservations. Although, after that initial day, I refused to talk about it, and just shrugged it off. It has been something I have thought about almost every day for the last year.

The message I got whenever I spoke to people about this was, “Be honest and tell them your opinion”. I scoffed, I laughed. Why would I want to be honest now? I mean, I know that’s who I am. I’m an honest person. But this? This news about The Kiddo? I would never want to be honest about how I feel about this diagnosis. I would never want to tell the truth about this diagnosis, because it makes me sick.

Here we are a year later, and honesty still appears to be the silent message I’m being told to voice. My best friend told me in her sage wisdom that I had to do it, if not for me, but for him, The Kiddo. I needed to voice my opinion, even if it meant dealing with some consequences. I needed to tell the truth, so one day The Kiddo would know how I felt, without any question or doubt.

That has been sitting at the back of my mind ever since my visit with The Kiddo’s parents on Sunday. Could I finally be brave enough to voice my opinion, and say what I need to say, without fear of all that I stand to lose if I articulate my truth?

You see, I went into the visit hopeful that we were going to start a new chapter of openness. The Hubby told me not to get my hopes up, he felt like our relationship with them would not progress to more openness for years, if ever. I disagreed out of sheer desperation. I needed to see a hope for openness, because otherwise, I was beginning to wonder why I was even around and why I was torturing myself.

During our visit, as they said that they would likely not introduce me for another three or more years, I nodded, and hoped that my devastation didn’t show on my face. I quickly did the math in my head. He’d be 12 then, at the earliest. The window of opportunity to have this reunion be a positive one seemed to be slipping through our fingers. I wanted to ask them if they realized that, or if they understood how old he’d be at that point, and how that would dramatically play into the dynamic. Furthermore, in three or more years, he’d know about his diagnosis, and I can only assume the resentment toward me, would be high.

I respect their decision, I have to, even if I don’t understand it. They say that he’s immature, but then they tell me stories where he is more mature then some adults I know. I have to wonder if they are just not ready for this, if they don’t want it, and maybe can’t find a way to articulate that they want me to disappear. Their hesitation baffles me.

And of course, I respect that they are his parents, and when it comes to this relationship, they are in complete control of what happens. Even if I would do it completely differently.

But that window, I see it in my mind. It’s the reason why I have kept quiet and not outwardly said what I really think of the diagnosis, or how I really feel. It’s the reason why I have smiled and nodded, even when I wanted to express disappointment. It’s the reason I have bit my tongue, and only cursed in the safety of my own home. There was always a tiny sliver of hope that indicated that I might be in an open adoption sooner. Now, I’m being hit with the realization that the window is closing, there is no chance of reunion right now. I may have been silly to think it was ever possible before adulthood. I know how things work in the LDS faction. A full, honest, constant open relationship through adoption? It’s rare. It’s unheard of, and I can’t imagine, in this particular situation that The Kiddo’s parents would be willing to be blaze a trail for those to follow.

So, I’m admitting defeat.

Instead of hiding in shame, I’m going to be honest, because that’s what I have been trying to do all year. I have been trying to change my routine, and open up. This honesty isn’t just for the world to read, it’s for me. So I can heal, so I can move on. And I hope that is what this confession does for me; I hope it sets me free. Right now, hiding it is eating at me in a way I’ve never had something eat at me.

The Kiddo was diagnosed last year with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, or more accurately, Alcohol Related Neurological Defects (ARND).

I do not agree with the diagnosis.

I don’t agree with it for a number of reasons, namely, based on the amount of alcohol I consumed it doesn’t make sense. Based on when I consumed it, the diagnosis doesn’t make sense. When I got the diagnosis, I did reading, a lot of reading. I didn’t fit into the criteria of what most professionals would qualify as a legitimate reason to diagnosis with such a heavy label. So then I got my journals out, because I wrote a lot back then and because I wanted to verify my statement that I hadn’t drank more then two coolers, and that it had been terribly early, possibly before conception. I figured out when my last period was, I figured out when A and I broke up. I figured out the dates when I drank each of those coolers.

Here’s the reality:

One would have been before I was even pregnant, the other would have been just shortly after, maybe a day or two. That particular cooler? I didn’t even finish. I had it as a nicety when I sat down with A’s grandpa to chat, and he razed me about not finishing it and wasting alcohol.

Yes, I know that any amount of alcohol is too much, but this? It just seems like too much, like the diagnosis doesn’t fit the crime at all. Like it was the easier place to go to, when they were struggling. Because it meant it wouldn’t be their fault. It was an outside person to blame, or an outside occurrence. And I guess, maybe that all makes sense after years of struggling with him behaviorally.

When I was pregnant, I spoke to friends who were medical professionals, and I asked them about the drinks. I was reassured, and even laughed at for being so worried. I was told, “There are women who drink way more then that, and their babies are just fine”. I was told, “That’s so little, it doesn’t even count.” I was told not to worry. I was even advised not to put it in any paperwork, because it wasn’t even something that should be considered, if they ran into behavioral issues.

That part of the paperwork was the last thing I filled out. I stared at it for days. I wondered if I should put it in. I had conversations with myself about it. I felt like I should out of sheer ethics, but something told me not to do it. The agency worker told me I had to and I had a feeling if I didn’t put something in, that it would end up there anyhow. I prayed about it, and the feeling was that I should leave it out. I hated that damn question and the line that sat empty. In the end, I ignored my gut, and I filled it out.

In the paperwork it says, “In the first 2-3 weeks of pregnancy” to the question about consuming alcohol.

When I said that, I was counting from the time I had my period. Not when I found out about the pregnancy. And then, below that, there is an addition. Because that’s all I wanted to write. Because I had been told it wasn’t even necessary to be there. Yet, when it came up, I was told that I needed to put how many. The worker convinced me that I should err on the side of caution and say more than less. When I said I knew exactly how much I drank, and when I drank them, I was told that I may have forgotten from all the stress I was under, or from that “darn pregnancy brain”.

I trusted her. And I trusted that it was the right thing to do, being honest, but then I was asked to elaborate, because even then, I trusted that they might be right, that they might be right that I could be wrong. Because my self-worth was so low, that I believed that I couldn’t even possibly remember something that occurred just months before.

I feel like I was set up. And used. And now, The Kiddo lives with this label, a label that I know he wouldn’t have if I had parented him. A label that will follow him for a life time, and will cause him to look at me much differently when we are reunited, even though my opinion or experience was not a part of the actual process of coming to the diagnosis. A label that will cause people to judge him and reject him, over and over throughout his life.

Of course, it’s only my word, the lowly birthmother word. I wasn’t included in this epic diagnosis, when they had access to me, and know I would have actively participated. My gut tells me I was kept out for a number of reasons. I have thought of many of these reasons over the last year and I have wondered how I could articulate my disappointment. Because that’s what it is, regarding how this was handled, and how I was left out of the entire process. And what it means for The Kiddo, for the rest of his life.

Really, that’s what it is, complete disappointment. I’m not angry with them. I’m not even mad. I could be, and I know that’s where my parents went when the diagnosis was given out to us. I even protected and stood up for The Kiddo’s parents when my family was saying uglier things, because I don’t believe that this diagnosis was ever vindictive. I believe they were in a place of exhaustion, and that paperwork was just there, with information that could explain away his behavioral issues. I get that, especially now as a parent, the struggle and inward fight that happens when you are not quite understanding why your child is not behaving in an appropriate, normal manner. I get how frustrating it is when you just want help, an explanation, an action plan so you can move on with your life, and stop revolving around this one person who is monopolizing everything.

What I am angry about is the fact that all of this would look entirely different if I had been strong enough to parent, and not stupid enough to believe every word I was told through the agency or fall for my parents routine manipulations. What I am angry about is having parents who saw religious resitituion as the most important aspect of the scenario, versus keeping The Kiddo with me.

Most of all, I’m angry that I was lied to in the hospital. When I cried over and over, and over again that he was going to hate me, I was told he wouldn’t. I sobbed over it, I begged him not to hate me, as if he, as an infant understood. I felt so sure that if I went through with this adoption that the end result would be hatred. That he would hate me.

Right now? I feel like I was right. How could he want anything to do with me, if he finds out about me around the same time he’ll find out that his “brain is different” because his biological mother consumed alcohol. I am the reason, according to this diagnosis, that he struggles, that he will struggle. I am the reason why his life is a little harder. Why wouldn’t he hate me for that?

Of course he’ll hate me. His parents will be the saints who parented him through, and I will be the dumb teenage girl who got knocked up out of wedlock and consumed alcohol, thereby ruining his life.

I ask again, why wouldn’t he hate me?

If I’m continuing the trend of honesty, for the last year, I have hated myself, I have hated everything I am, to the point where I have lost confidence, any ability to maintain self-worth, and I challenge any person who even remotely says they love me. If I hate me, why would he have any reason, especially since I keep being shoved back to the shadows, to not do the exact same thing?

I hate me not because I believe in the diagnosis, but because I wasn’t smart enough to know that I shouldn’t have been so damn honest, and trusting. Because I have continued to believe that my voice is an important one in this equation.

And I am learning, even nine years later, that while I was told I was the most integral part of the process, my time has been served, and my opinion, even if it serves the truth, has no part in this adoption process past the day I signed those damn papers.

That realization alone is enough to keep me paralyzed in this pit of complete self-loathing for an eternity.

“He was looking at your pictures of The Kiddo, while we were watching the hockey game, ” The Hubby told me in a hushed voice as I shut off the television for the night.

I perked up from my slouched television watching position on our couch, and looked over at Potato who was deciding whether Blue and Bella (our pets) had just enough food.

“Potato, were you looking at the pictures of The Kiddo?”

A sheepish look crossed his face, and  his eyes went wide. He slowly nodded. I smiled at him, to reassure him that I was okay with it.

“What were you thinking when you looked at them?” I prodded gently.

He paused, playing with his hands when he’s nervous, like I do. He squinted his eyes in his “I’m contemplating my wording” fashion, then he asked,

“Why did it make you so sad to give him away?”

Each word hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt a sob making it’s way up my throat, and I quickly stifled it, but not before the tears began pouring down my face.

“Come here,” I managed to say. Potato quickly ran to me, and clambered up on my lap.

“Sweetie, you know how you lived in my belly? Well, so did The Kiddo. I loved him because he was my son, just like you. I was sad because I was told I couldn’t keep him. I was sad because I loved him but I was told I couldn’t bring him home”.

Potato nodded and wrapped one of his arms around my neck, stroking my hair thoughtfully.

“Why did he have to go away?”

The lump in my throat was getting bigger.

“Well, my parents made me give him away. They said I couldn’t keep him because I was too young.”

Potato snuggled into my shoulder and said,

“Oh. That’s why you were sad?”

I nodded, afraid to speak.

He hopped off my lap, and after the cat. I stood up, unsure of myself. The Hubby tried to grab my hand, but I shook it off. I had to retreat before Potato could see me completely fall apart.

I knew there was a catch when I opted to be honest with him about The Kiddo. I knew it would be initially hard, but openness is what I wanted most of all. I didn’t foresee or plan for him to randomly ask me questions as he processed the idea. I didn’t realize he wouldn’t know that ‘right now’ was not necessarily a good time to bring it up. All I thought was, “He deserves to know. He deserves for me to be honest”. I want him to ask me these questions, I want him to know the truth about the loss adoption brings. I want him to understand that I had no choice, so that he doesn’t think I would ever give him away.

He won’t want to do that if he sees that his questions hit a place that just shatters me from within, over and over.  So I must wear the brave face, and tread into areas that I’d sometimes rather just avoid or ignore. All in the name of being open and honest.

I made my way to my bedroom, I turned off the light, set my phone down in the bed, and sat cross legged against on the floor, taking a deep breath.

And I cried.

I cried as The Hubby rubbed my back. As he stroked my hair. As he retreated to put Potato to bed. I cried when he came back and softly asked if I wanted to talk. When my answer was more sobs, he began to tell me about Potato looking at the pictures. He told me how Potato would bring him a picture and asking, “Daddy, is Mommy sad in this one? Did The Kiddo make her sad?” He told me how Potato was separating the pictures into ones where I was smiling and ones where he had decided I looked sad. I sobbed as I pictured Potato carefully sorting into piles, and trying to grasp this part of his life that impacts him yet is not anything tangible for him. I cried as my thoughts raced back and forth. Over and over, repeating, bringing new thoughts with them.

I cried because my four year old comprehended that losing The Kiddo made me sad. That it still makes me sad.  All of that from some pictures, and small conversations. I cried because I shouldn’t have to explain that to him. I shouldn’t have to explain adoption loss to my four year old, but I’m forced to, because it has made me the mother I am, and it’s reflection is painted on our every day life.

As the crying subsided, and my anti-anxiety pill eased it’s way into my system, I whispered to The Hubby who had been by my side, vigilant and soft,

“They, the mothers who are further in then me,  keep telling me this grief never goes away. How do I live the rest of my life like this? Stricken with this sort of debilitating sadness, and filled with a hatred that no one should ever know. How do I make this normal? Because it’s just not, it’s anything but normal.”

I felt The Hubby’s tears on my neck, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I’m not quite sure why I get so nervous before a meeting with The Kiddo’s parents. Maybe it’s the fact that it doesn’t happen often. Maybe it’s the fact that I am unsure of what might happen, or the direction it could take. Maybe it’s my own seemingly “normal” anxiety peaking. Maybe it’s just a regular part of the open adoption concept.

However, in order to cope, I focus on the menial things. Like my hair. Or my nails. Or my shoes. Do I dress up, casual or down? What if I overdress? What if I under dress? I obsess to the point of planning multiple outfits based on weather. Based on how I’ll feel that day, based on my hair being up or down. I always make sure I pick the right colors, only the ones that look good on me. I always take much longer with my makeup, hoping to accentuate my very brown eyes. I repack my purse. I talk about when we’ll leave, which roads will get us there the fastest. I worry about being there too early, or not early enough. Everything goes through my mind, and I honestly, by the end of the visits feel neurotic and exhausted from all my over worrying.

I’ve done this routine since adoption came into play. I did it the very first time I met them, on the day I relinquished, on the day of finalization. His second birthday. Last year. It’s become part of the ritual of seeing them, I guess.

In some regard, I believe it helps me cope with the fact that so much is out of my control. It helps me from free-falling into the pit of complete overwhelming anxiety. It helps me feel like I can still impress them. Because I still desperately want to make sure that they adore me, that they love me and that they are impressed with who I am. They are an important part of my life, of The Kiddo’s life, and I want them to love me, as I do love them.

As if an outfit can do all of that for me, right? Try telling that to me pre-meeting.

I figured naively, that perhaps I was the only one who would obsess or worry about silly things like this. There was no way in my mind that they would possibly be even remotely concerned about impressing me, because really, what is there to impress? I am, afterall the lowly birth mother, and they are the perfect adoptive couple. I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever, as I resort to that sort of thinking when it comes to our relationship. Which is a sad confession for me, but it is unfortunately, the truth.

I would have never guessed that we would have nervousness in common. I think the idea that they could be human was a foreign idea; like they would always been above these normal behaviors in stressful situations.

When I arrived on Sunday, The Hubby and I were greeted by a fabulous house. I managed not to turn a shade of green as I saw their beautiful kitchen, the kind that is perfect for a family. When The Kiddo’s Mom admitted that she had been in a mad dash to make sure the house was perfect for me, I smiled and reassured her that it wasn’t necessary but the house looked great. I have kids, I know how hard it is to keep a house clean in preparation for visitors- it’s an admirable feat. Later, as we discussed some of The Kiddo’s habits, another confession came in the form of her worrying about what I would think if his room was in it’s usual pack rat state.

Simple things to outsiders, but a small realization that we have much more in common then I have been believing for years. When Heather posted the tweets from the open adoption seminar she attended, it really hit me how similar our fears were. Generically speaking, we were both afraid of judgment, of rejection, and of not being heard. As the tweets continued almost all of the fears began to show the same common thread. Taking pause, I wondered how it was possible that all of us involved in the adoption constellation could feel such similar emotions, yet be in such different places and astronomically different roles.

Fear seems to be a big part of adoption, especially open adoption. The more open you are in an adoption, the greater the risk there is to be hurt or to lose. Yet, where there is a great risk, there is a great gain. The gain should always be the focus; what can we gain from being here, from being open with one another? We are all wrapped up in this relationship, meaning we do stand to lose, especially if things don’t go to plan. However, the wanting to be important to each other seems to be at the forefront of the fears; being wanted and appreciated would eliminate the fear of judgment, of not being heard, and of being rejected.

The lack of communication about even these smaller, yet telling fears is one of the reasons we are unable to come together as equals in this relationship. When all parties are able to admit that there is some fear, and some nervousness, even if it’s not necessarily warranted, it helps to bring some real perspective to the table. No longer are we second guessing ourselves, and each other; the admission that we all have fears can open up a door to acknowledge that they are reasonable, but unfounded. In the beginning, the fears can revolve around trust, around respect, or boundaries. As the relationship grows, the fears can remain similar, or they can grow into insecurities about not being enough, or bigger worries of acceptance from both the adoptive family and your own child. How we choose to acknowledge these fears within ourselves, and in this open adoption relationship can really set the tone for how we view and interact with one another.

In all honesty, when The Kiddo’s parents sheepishly admitted their nerves, I felt myself relax. Knowing that they were worried, if even for different reasons than mine, it was a small bit of confidence. They still had shown trust by willingly sharing their home with us, which can seem like a small and meaningless action. It shows that there is respect, and understanding. As our conversations wore on, I found myself being more open, sharing more than I ever had, and never once did I feel the urge to hold back, or to hide. We were all sharing freely, they were sharing their own experiences and feelings. It all felt like a big step forward in our relationship.

With no mediator there to guide us, the conversation was fluid, and open. Honest and easy. Comforting and familiar. Just as I have always wished it could be.

I’ll likely never stop obsessing before visits, and will always need a friend to take me and my neurosis shopping. However, there is some solace in the knowledge, in their own way, in their own form, they are worrying about similar things, about impressing me, leading up to our meetings. It makes them seem less like the “perfect adoptive couple” that I was sold, and more of the wonderful people who have parented and raised my son, who is their son.

A commonality we will share for life, the first thing we ever had in common.

My mind is full yet, it is completely blank. It’s racing yet it’s completely still. It’s full of loudness but yet it’s eerily quiet and serene. I have words upon words upon words. I have so much to portray but no real words to put out.

I’m a little lost right now.

Yesterday, The Hubby and I spent the afternoon with The Kiddo’s parents. I had requested that my yearly package be given to me in person, without the involvement of the agency. We decided to meet up, and they opened their home to us, graciously. It was a good day. It was an eye-opening day. It was a turning point.

I’ll recount the visit in the coming days, when I’ve had some space to separate the onslaught of intense emotions that come from being in these situations. Right now, I’m internalizing, searching, contemplating. I’m feeling guilt and worry. Remembering old fears, and new ones. I’m trying to figure out why I shut myself down as soon as we got in the car, especially when the visit was great. I’m trying to figure out why I burst into tears, only to push them back and tell The Hubby I was just fine, and that “I didn’t want to talk”.  When all I wanted was to let them flow, and sob. I wanted to be brave, but I wanted to fall apart. So I opted to go a little numb.

That’s why I’m flailing a little right now. Perhaps it’s the fact that I learned how little information they were told about The Kiddo after he was born. Perhaps it’s the discussion we had about certain players, my parents in particular that’s stirring up some undiscovered feelings. Perhaps it was seeing his room, with his well loved stuffed animals on his bed. Perhaps it’s just a post-visit emotional letdown.

I have no idea. For now, inward feels safest. I want to be invisible, and unseen. I want my tears to go unnoticed, and my heart to beat a little slower. I want my dreams not to be filled of images of his room and him. I just want to be free from this incredible bittersweet, heartache, if only for a couple of days.

Maybe tomorrow will seem brighter, and some comprehension will be found. Maybe tomorrow I will smile a little bigger, and the tears will be finished their threats. Maybe I’ll be able to share the beauty of this simple visit.

Today, I will just survive. Today I will just be. Today I am breathing, and turning to the person I know better than anyone else. Who knows this pain better and understands the way I deal with it.

Today, I feel safest on the inside.

As of late, I’ve noticed a bit of a pattern within the adoption community and it actually is quite concerning, in my opinion.  Honestly, I knew that it existed before I really walked out of my “adoption closet” but I had no idea that it was painted on every surface I would come across. I had no idea that in the realm of adoptions, the adopting families were the preferred voices. I had no idea that adoptees, and mothers who relinquished could be both glorified, and completely stereotyped in the same breath.

This week, the show Birth Moms premiered on TLC. I refused to watch it hoping that it will not be turned into the adoption version of Toddlers and Tiaras. My Twitter feed quickly filled up with disgust and frustration at the show as it aired over Thursday evening. Comments regarding the poor choices of the girls who were chosen to participate, to discussions about the laws within Utah that advocate for mother’s to completely deny a father his parental rights; the message seemed to be the same. Another mass media production showing women who consider adoption as thoughtless, stupid, unintelligent and completely irresponsible.  On the flip side, another production of showing viewers how terrible and awful it is to be the adoptive parents in the equation.

How and why did this “poor adoptive family” mentality begin? I’ve watched over the course of the last few months, as organizations and individuals that are pro-adoption (which is a terrible choice of words really) blast those of us who have issues with the aforementioned unethical television programming, or believe that all mothers should be included on Mother’s Day, or managed to somehow get an entire contest shut down after trying to isolate those with voices who did not match theirs. It’s frightening, and completely disconcerting.

When did the families looking to adopt become the victims of the system, the ones who get all the sympathy, the attention, the ability to speak their voices?

They hold all the cards. They have the agencies and law on their side. Likely, they are going to get the child. They are going to get to go home and live the life women are told they should be aspiring to. We go home with nothing, no baby, perhaps maybe a couple tokens from the hospital, if we’re allowed. We’re told to forget, move on and take our place in the “Good Birthmother” lineup. They are going to be able to talk about their story freely; even if they say bleaker things, and will not be diminished or disregarded. If they close an adoption they promised they’d keep open, people will give them excuses. If we demand more openness, we’re crossing boundaries and being disrespectful. They will be praised by most people who learn of their story. Their opinions will be heralded, and listened to. We will be forced to deal with our grief in complete silence as not to disrespect their happiness, especially if our story doesn’t match the positive outlook that is expected of modern day (birth) mothers.

Now, I know that I am speaking rather broadly and generically. I understand that there are adoptive parents out there that are loving, respectful and generally very wonderful. What I am talking about has a little to do with their general character, and more to do with the “adoptive parent privilege”. For some reason, our society has also completely adopted (no pun intended) the attitude, as if they, the adopting party, are the only part of the adoption constellation that actually matters.  I mean, really where are the offensive, stereotypical shows about the “bad” adoptive parents?  Where are the jokes about them in movies? Why do mothers get to be labeled in such a predictable and exhausting manner, yet adoptive parents always get to be the “good guys”? When will we see a show that generalizes adopting families in a light that is not flattering?

Oh right, we won’t. Because that wouldn’t be fair or ethical.

Continuing, if they hold all the cards, why are we still handing them this particular card, the one that allows the media and culture to continue to believe that they are always the innocent party, from start to end. Even when something goes awry, they are still the party to be pitied.  Why are we handing out more reasons to be the victims in a situation where adopting families aren’t generally the actual victims.

When any of us, adoptees, or mothers who relinquished, speak out against the current adoption practices in the world, we’re labelled as angry. If we speak about ugliness of our own personal experiences, we are bitter. We’re always, no matter what, the ones that get blamed for our experiences.

Even if we had little to no say in what happened.

Why is it that we, as a society, allow this to happen? Shows like Birth Moms only stand to further segregate us all, and continue to build the facade that adoptive parents are the ones who should be cared for exclusively.  There is also the issue that they then become able to speak to all of the experiences within the adoption constellation. How is it possible that they can comprehend the experience of all of us within the relationship? Furthermore, why do they get to speak to our experience or diminish it when it doesn’t go hand in hand with their own?

I’m beginning to understand that one of the biggest reasons why there are so many societal myths and misunderstandings about the true reality of adoption is that the focus appears to be on the wrong people. No offense to anyone who is an adoptive parent.  Really though, society is completely obsessed with your happiness, and the future of your family. When I speak of my experience, I am not listened to the same way an adoptive parent is. When I speak of the unethical way in which my adoption was handled, I’m still to blame. Yet, when a mother pulls out of an adoption plan, she’s being selfish or irresponsible. When an adoptive parent speaks of the hardships they face, they are comforted, consoled, and empathized with.

And, again, they are never stereotyped in such an ugly, blatantly despicable manner in mass media. Time and time again, they are the champions of adoption, and the rest of us are just pawns to be ignored.

When it comes to the “triad” of adoption, there is no equal, because adopting parents are put up on a pedestal, and the rest of us, the adoptees and biological parents are left standing in the shadows of their epic monument.

It says a lot about a society who will feed this sort of entitled behavior. The kind that believes that any amount of money should be enough to guarantee them an infant fresh from the womb, with no consequence, ignoring the lack of ethics needed to get there. The kind that believes that a mother deciding to parent her own child, even in the most imperfect of circumstances is selfish, and wrong. The kind that convinces us that the biological fathers mean nothing, and should be left out of the process, come what may. The kind that believe we should watch women go through the heart wrenching decision of deciding to keep or relinquish rights to a child on national television.

I’m not blaming adoptive parents for this societal mindset; it’s really been a collaborative effort from both agencies, media, and individuals who believe the trite idea that “adoption is better”  or “adoption is a miracle/gift”. The reality is the majority of the population seems to relate better to that side of the story than to those who speak of the debilitating loss it means for the other parties involved. It’s almost as if, we have become so fixated on the gains of adopting families because we don’t really want to face the reality that adoption permanently causes irreparable wounds in two of the parties involved. Think about it for a second; have we actually viewed the reality of the post-adoption process for the mothers who sign away their rights? What about the adoptees as they struggle to deal with not fitting in, among other issues?  Would anyone want to watch a show that shows the harsh reality of adoption loss on the two parties that are widely disregarded?

No, they wouldn’t. I know if my post-adoption experience was filmed, that people would have had to walk away. Even as I tell parts of my experiences, I have friends tell me that they feel sick reading the things I endured at the hands of my parents and agency, and that was just during the process. I can’t even write about my relinquishment day because it’s that hard for me to remember, or think about. It would shock the general public to know what a mother goes through after the papers have been signed.

No matter what we all believe about our own experiences in adoption as a mother: the year after?  I’m sure we’ll all collectively say it the hardest, darkest, and emotionally depleting year.  The world after adoption, for a mother who relinquished is a tough one…no tough doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s a trainwreck of trying to figure yourself out, after becoming a mother, and not actually getting to mother. It’s a nightmare of hysteria, aching, and shutting the world out in order to persevere. It can bring about words like Post-Partum Depression or Psychosis, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, anxiety, generic depression, and complete grief.

Cameras stop filming when the couple is walking out of sight with their newborn in their arms, with a fleeting shot to the couple or mother crying as they watch them fade away. This insinuates that all is said and done, the happily ever after begins and and ends with the realization of finding the baby an adoptive parent. It also continues to sell the myth that adoption ends when the papers are signed. That the adoption was only ever about one thing: the couple taking that baby home. And we all know that is not the most important thing. We most certainly know that it’s not even the end, it’s really just the beginning.

It’s the beginning of a lifetime of searching, and wondering. It’s a lifetime of remembering, and grief. It’s a lifetime of hardships and trials. It’s not easy.  It’s not a happy ending, because it’s not even a ending.  But for the general public, that’s where the adoption ends. That’s where the happiness lies, and where the miracle of adoption is presented. A family is made, and all their dreams came true.

It’s not all rainbows, and unicorns and happy endings. It’s not insulting stereotypes through casting or jokes. It’s a real life altering life decision. When only one side of the adoption constellation is regarded with respect, it means that we still have a long way to go before we will officially realize true adoption reform.

Maybe we should make a show about that?