Two hour Fox TV program tonight: an adoptee wins $100,000 if she guesses which man is her “real biological” father.
In my vocabulary “real biological” is a cruel oxymoron when used in conjunction with adoption.
When I was a child adoption issues were swept under the carpet. Except that my parents could never get with the program and made being adopted seem like the greatest thing in the world to me and fave-sis who wasn’t.
You know what? Being adopted was great. I lucked out in my family choice.
But I had multiple problems that grew worse with puberty. I went into pre-menstrual hormone rage at age nine two years before I got my first period. I was clumsy; I was the last to be picked for a team; I was shunned by former friends. It was no longer enough that I could make up games and had an imagination.
I won’t go into the myriad of therapists I saw or how they all focused on one factor–I was adopted. I’m sure that I have writings about it in my blog somewhere. (I will archive according to subject on my new site.)
The point is that they were wrong and instead of focusing on how I could learn to spell, be organized, not care about being able to sing, not care that I was awkward and much more, they tried to get me to admit that I hated being adopted and resented my parents for having adopted me.
I couldn’t admit to what wasn’t true. Even as a child I knew that. But so much time was wasted because my family was more honest than other families, and therapists weren’t used to a very verbal child who refused to give them what they wanted, but still wanted them to like and respect me.
Then the adoption movement began: Some facts I learned. I had never bonded with my parents that was impossible–I imprinted with them. I didn’t have true learning disabilities or ADHD–I chose to have these problems as a way of resolving my inner anger.
Would any bright kid who had always been happy have chosen to be the kid the teacher picked out as the most disorganized, the sloppiest, the this, the that? I don’t think even subconsciously I picked these problems.
I learned that meeting my birth mother would immediately solve all these problems. Then I learned that of course I needed time to heal and spend with her.
You know what I really learned? That many people are incredibly unhappy and want to push their unhappiness on others. They develop “schools of knowledge,’ to back their absurd hypotheses. At one point “The official dictionary of Adoption” defined “adoptive parent’s’ as slave owners. I rest my case.
It took me many years to understand that i had real problems that I hadn’t chosen subconsciously and therefore didn’t have to feel guilty about them. “Guilt” is something else that adoptive parents are supposed to make their child feel. Doesn’t every parent in someway or another?
I stopped feeling guilty after I bought my first computer and realized that the playing field was more level. With a computer I can spell, organize my thoughts (somewhat), keep files and my life in order.
I have horrible hand-to-eye coordination. Another problem that was supposed to have been caused by my being adopted. Amazing the problems you can get from the mere act of being adopted.
Computers have improved my hand-to-eye coordination immensely. I refuse to play the if only computers had been around in their present form when I was younger. I know that there was no limits to how high I could have flown.
Guess what? I’m still relatively young. I can still soar. I’m just learning how high I can fly. It’s fun and I love almost every moment of my life. Sue me if I’m happy in a horrible time. It’s fun to feel in charge of my life. I could never feel that way before I never felt organized enough. Though I seemed to be at work and other places.
But when something Like Who’s your daddy comes on TV I regress. This isn’t choosing a potential mate you could break up with. This is trying to idealize your biological father.
My daddy thought that I was brilliant.
My daddy shared child raising chores with my mom.
He changed his share of diapers.
He would take me into the city to show me his world.
He thought that I had unlimited potential, if I only knew it, and if I could be a little more organized, this and that.
My daddy wasn’t perfect.
My daddy loved his family fiercely.
My daddy sought out challenges and adventures. He taught us to do the same.
My daddy mixed metaphors and made up his own:
“There are four burners on a stove for a reason. Live a four burner life.”
My daddy never talked down to me.
He didn’t believe in some of my beliefs, but he never tried to impose his views on me.
“If you weren’t rebelling against me, you would be rebelling against the world.”
He wanted me to see the world and made sure that I saw much of it.
He grew to talk to me as an equal.
I grew up enough to listen.
We were constantly giving each other advice.
He wanted me to stand up for what I believed in, and was proud of me for doing just that.
He thought that I was brilliant and that I was making too much of my problems.
He didn’t believe that most guys in my generation were worth anything and taught us to be self-sufficient.
All he really wanted was for his daughters to be happy.
He was a “compassionate conservative” who believed in free speech, a woman’s right to choose; and that I had every right to find my birth parents.
I don’t owe my parents anything.
They chose to help me become an individual worth knowing.
They were just doing what they believed was their job as parents.
They would have been gravely insulted had I acted like I owed them for the privilege of having adopted me.
Somehow they thought they were the privileged ones.
Thank you mommy and daddy.
I know who my parents are.
I will never go on TV to pick out my “real biological parents.”
I might not share my parents DNA, but I share their thought processes.
They were my only real parents and I thank them for that privilege.
They would have said the second part of the above wasn’t right.
Thank you my parents for thinking that.