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Forgiveness – An Apology to my Birth Mum

I had an eternal belief that ‘I’m sorry’ means nothing. It’s just two words that people used, because there was nothing sufficient to rectify the accompanying mistake it sat in juxtaposition too. I knew this because I had heard I’m sorry more time than I can count, and in varying degrees of sincerity and in a multitude of ways.

The biggest I’m sorry always comes when I’ve been let down. I’m sorry I wasn’t or I couldn’t be there when you needed me. I’m sorry for hurting you, and I’m sorry for making you cry.

I know that in those moments, it is in the sincerity and tenderness of the apology that there is meaning in the words, but how then can you forgive behaviour that harms you? What right does someone have to your forgiveness when all they say is “I’m sorry”.

This is something I’ve come to think of often as I’ve grown up. I spent a great deal of my life angry at my birth parents. Angry they couldn’t look after me. Angry that I was adopted. Angry that no-one would, in fact that no-one could tell me my story or my history.

Part of growing though has been learning what forgiveness really means.

I may doubt the sincerity that comes with the words I’m sorry, a catchall phrase that covers a multitude of sins. From the incredibly painful ‘I’m sorry I left you alone, I’m sorry I didn’t love you like you deserved, I’m sorry you had to deal with that alone’, to the mundane I’m sorry’s–‘ I’m sorry I ate your chocolate mousse, and I’m sorry I forgot to get you diet coke on my way home.’

I have had to learn to look past the words. After all words are just words, and if we all meant everything we’ve said then I have a lifetime of making up to do.

I needed to capture the meaning in the behaviour behind the apology. I’m sorry means nothing if someone doesn’t change their behaviour. When someone says I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me, then you expect them to be there for you. That doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten that they let you down, but you open up in vulnerability and ask them to be there. So when someone say I’m sorry I wasn’t there but then tries to be there every time, whether you need them or not, you can accept that I’m sorry meant more than just words. That’s forgiveness, allowing yourself and this person to accept a mistake and move on.

When I was in university, somewhere between the ages of 18-22, I’m not really sure how old I was, the timing gets all muddled, I reached out to my birth mother. I painstakingly created a fake Facebook profile. I used my own pictures and my name, but didn’t use my last name. I made sure to hide where I lived and my job and what I was doing. Then I reached out.

I spoke to this woman, and was overwhelmed. I don’t know how I thought this experience would unravel, but it wasn’t how it went. I was overwhelmed with bitterness and anger. I spoke to this woman, my mother, on the phone, and I felt hot waves of anger rolling over my body. Here was this woman who had carried me for nine months, and lost me after 2 and half years, but she didn’t seem contrite enough in my opinion. Why wasn’t she crying? Why wasn’t she begging for my forgiveness? Why was she seemingly so calm on one hand, and on the other it felt like all she had was excuses?

She said she loved me, and she was sorry. She asked if I was okay. She told me how it wasn’t her fault, and that what happened to me was a consequence of many things. Sharing with me some of her childhood, her history and her and past. Why she loved me, but it wasn’t what the social services thought was the right love. She said she was able to care for me but the care system decided it wasn’t in a way I needed.

I couldn’t accept any of this. Her ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t meet the impossible expectation I had in my head for her. I don’t know where the idea had come from, but I believed she would have spent the last 18 years thinking of what she would say when she had the opportunity. That she would have cards and presents, and letters. She would tell me that after losing her kids she’d turned her life around and fought to get us back, but it was too late. I thought she would owe me a lifetime of explanations of why she wasn’t good enough. I thought she should be making it up to me, desperate and begging for my love and forgiveness.

It’s shameful to admit really, but I felt like she owed me the world, and I decided I would get what I deserved. At the time, I was going through a stage of spending money obsessively. I was in a severe amount of debt, blowing money on food out and takeaways, and clothes and make up and alcohol and cigarettes. Any way in which I could spend money I did it. I told her, I’ve spent my rent money, and I need £200 to pay for food and bills.

This woman, my birth mother, without hesitation went out of her way to get me that money, and still I wasn’t happy. It was just money, sure she sent it, that was her trying to show up for me, but I wanted words, I wanted apologies, and I wanted honesty about what happened. I had this expectation and fantasy of what I wanted. I wanted her to want me, but I didn’t want her. I wanted her to be sorry and to apologise but I didn’t want to know her story. I wasn’t prepared to hear what she had to say. I knew how I felt, I knew what happened to me. Nothing she could say would change that. I didn’t even allow her the opportunity, because I was on a defensive and argumentative attack from the first conversation. She wasn’t my mother, I wanted her apologies but I would never give her my forgiveness.

She could not do that, because she was only capable of sharing her story. Her truth. One which I steamrolled and ignored and rejected, because I thought my pain and trauma was more than hers.

It’s now been several years since I’ve spoken to her. I completely shut down communication when I didn’t get the apology I thought I was owed, but in reality, I’ve learnt over the last few years, that there were two people at fault in that relationship.

She wasn’t right to hurt me, or lose me or leave me, and I was just a child and a victim. However I was spiteful and vindictive when I reached out again, and set an impossible standard for her to meet. I pushed her, and fought her, and gave her no space to speak or talk or share what she needed too.

If one day she is ready – or even if I find a way for myself to be ready, I would like to hear her story, this time with less judgement and expectation, but just with open ears. I may not agree, but this time I’d like to give her the honesty of hearing, not using.

Until then, I owe her my own I’m sorry, and with genuine depth of feeling I am sorry for using her, and hurting her a second time.

I want to ask for her forgiveness. I also promise that if we do ever talk again, my actions will reflect this apology, because if there is one thing I’ve learnt, forgiveness isn’t letting go of the past or mistakes we make. It is instead, hearing that someone cares and wants the opportunity to show that, not that they can take away what happened, but just the want an opportunity to move forward.

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Love and Loss: The notion of two sets of parents

Social Media has sparked a revolution amongst adoptees. Armed with the internet and social media, a simple click of a button can send a message that will make far-reaching and long impacting waves. This increased access amongst birth families has led to an array of problems, particular amongst vulnerable teenagers who are being inundated with exhaustive emotions at an already emotionally strenuous times.

That’s not to say that there hasn’t been positives. Many, many adoptions aren’t born from negative or tumultuous experiences, and the opportunity for reconciliation presented to women who were encouraged and some forced, to give up their children simply for being unwed, for example, has allowed mothers who were denied their right to parent the opportunity to investigate and indeed often create lasting bonds that had previously been all but denied.

As an adoptee, I have previously mentioned the difficulties of reconciling having two families, and the complications of how family can be made up. Nothing however, comes close to the guilt and difficulty that comes from trying to understand parentage. I want to firstly say, this post is entirely personal to me, and doesn’t reflect on how other adoptees should see their parentage. I am just grateful to have a voice, because my story is and will always be difficult to tell. As it is for difficult for many adoptees to voice their struggles.

My Parents …

One of the things I remember hearing growing up was how lucky I was to be adopted, how lucky I was that my parents wanted me. That I had a nice home, and after such an awful start in life I should be so grateful to have such a good family now.

I remember hearing this – and aged six, or ten or fourteen, I had no idea how to articulate how I felt, but now I feel I have means and capacity to say something.

I love my Mum and Dad, they’ve given me everything they could, and more. My parents would do anything to support me. When I was ill my mum would sit up and make sure I was okay, my dad would drive me to dance practice. When I left for university my whole family dropped me off, and when I graduated I moved back home, because I would always be welcome. No-one will ever be more grateful to my parents than me. They chose to adopt because they had the opportunity to take someone who was down and out, that they had buckets of unconditional love to share with.

My parents did exactly that, took in my sister and I, and did everything right. By that I mean they got so much wrong as every parent does … but they loved us both with a ferocity that defies the belief that blood is thicker than water. When other people’s parents sought to tear us down, or saw our troubled background as reasons to exclude us, my mother was there fighting with love to show we were just children.

How then, do I explain the sense of loss I feel, when I talk about parents or losing parents. It’s true that in my eyes, my Mum and Dad are my only PARENTS, but what about my biological parents? Because I do have them, and I did lose them, and this loss is something I am both acutely aware of and often seek to hide.

I know for some adoptees it’s their biological parents, others just call them their parents, for some they are simply surrogates. For me, they are my birth parents.

One of the hardest things I believe I face in life is acknowledging the love my Parents have for me against the simple yet inextricable reality that is biology. I know of adoptees who lost their parents due to financial situations, age or health. People whose parents weren’t abusive, or neglectful, and carried so much love for their children and just weren’t able to provide them everything they wanted too. These children love their biological parents, and often pine after, long for and idolise them, and often in the future seek out contact.

That isn’t my story – and yet, unfathomably, I still feel the loss of my parents. As I mentioned, I grew up hearing how lucky I was to be adopted, and how blessed I am to have such generous and loving parents, and I am, blessed. However, the idea that loss and luck are mutually exclusive ideas and you can only have one and not the other doesn’t sit well with me.

My birth mothers story isn’t mine to tell, and in truth, I don’t think I could tell it. From what I can piece together she was young, 23 or so when she had me, and by the age of 24 a mother of four biological children and stepmother to another four. Key to my upbringing was a lifestyle of instability, and although I was very young, violence, physical and emotional abuse, misuse of alcohol and drugs all played a part in chaotic and unsafe lifestyle, that created an unstable and disconnected environment for the first four and half years of my life.

However, what no-one ever tells you is that a birth mother will always be a parent, whether she is able or even capable of parenting her child. The loss of any child, is not a loss that will disappear overnight, and even those who cannot parent fairly feel this loss deeply and continuously.

This loss is all the more acute for adopted children. In some cases I find that people assume when you come from a tumultuous background, there is a greater assumption that you shouldn’t, even couldn’t miss your birth parents … but how is it possible? Biologically they created you, and for some period of time they parented (in my case to limited capacities) you. The lack of appropriate parenting does not remove the bonds created.

I don’t long for my birth mother, I have reached out to her once, and found the experience both wanting and frustrating. I don’t feel like she offers anything to me, that I keenly want in my life. That doesn’t make me feel my loss any less. I had a mother who I was taken away from – rightly so I believe, but nonetheless I was removed. The result was me struggling to ever trust any adult, and I’m so aware that the bond I had formed, however unbalanced and unsafe, was considered not enough. I was not enough to be a better parent, and no amount of love makes you safe.

Even knowing all these facts, being told I am lucky, and knowing how much I love my parents, I am still aware of this loss. I carry it with me, it is a part of who I am, and it’s what makes me resilient. I am so independent, I often find myself pushing people away and deciding I don’t need help or support. I love to rely on myself, and am so proud of all the things I have achieved on my own.

This has had a knock on effect with my Parents, it cannot have been easy parenting someone who was prepared at any moment for them to be taken away and to lose another set of parents… again. Loss like that becomes ingrained into you, and whilst I wouldn’t say it defines who I am, it’s a loss that is a defining characteristic. I love my Parents, but that doesn’t mean I feel my loss any less. I suppose I am in a way of sorts, stuck between knowing something wasn’t good for me, but acknowledging how painful that loss was.

I think a lot of people don’t realise how the loss can transpire, and no matter how bad my parents were, and how little I feel they are my parents, the truth is, that loss is always there, niggling at the back of my mind. Made worse by people saying that loss is luck, and that you should be grateful and glad, and thankful.

Advice to my younger self: A letter on love

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Maybe I could have learnt not to wear socks and sandals sooner

There are times at night where I lie in bed, and the lyrics of a song, or the end of a book will remind me how lucky I am to be alive. I might be crying because the song sings of heartbreak, or smiling because the couple fell in love, but these moments are when I realise how important and valid emotions are. As I lie there, I often think about how much I’ve been through, and I think ‘wow’ how resilient I am. Even after everything the worlds thrown at me I still put my all into what I can, I still try and find love, I still cultivate friendships and relationships, I still have a passion for the world. Don’t get me wrong I still have days where I want to stay in bed and cry, where I think today is too hard, and that nothing is worth my time and effort. More often than not I’m very hard on myself, I don’t feel satisfied with what I’ve achieved and I definitely am not my own biggest cheerleader, but the self-love I afford myself now is greater than any love I ever allowed myself as a child.

When I was a child I was convinced I was unlovable. How could I not be, my parents couldn’t love me, they cared so little they weren’t even able to try and parent me properly. Then I was adopted, and following my adoption my parents had two children of their own … why wasn’t I enough? Well I wasn’t their blood, they’re clearly disappointed and wanted their own children to love. The thought I was unlovable is something I’ve definitely carried with me as an adult, and even now I know I need to be kinder to myself and accept the love I deserve, instead of allowing those who don’t care to hurt me.

If I could meet my younger self now, I would want her, NO, I would need her to know that she is both loved and worthy of love. I wish I had realised this soon, because instead of seeking love in painful places I would have realised that it was all around me, if only I had realised love has a thousand different languages. It’s in my parents making doctors’ appointments, and friends sending a text. In a colleagues mug of tea, and my sisters arms thrown around me for just a second. I am so loved and I wish I had known sooner, that would be in my letter to my younger self.

Letter to my younger self

Dear Dawn,

Hiya! I know right now you’re not treating yourself with kindness but, I want you to know that you are loved! Not only are you loved by so many people, more than that, you are worthy of this love. You deserve to be loved. You may not realise it right now, but as you grow you’re going to cultivate friendships and relationships that shape you and in all of these experiences you’re going to learn about yourself, but the best thing you can learn is you are truly worth love.

You shouldn’t see it as a flaw to hold something back of yourself, and you should also know it’s not a flaw to give someone all of your love unconditionally. Sure there are people who are going to hurt you, friends who are going to disappoint you and boys who are going to break you heart, people will take advantage of you, but that’s part of life, and doesn’t make you stupid or mean you shouldn’t trust or love. People will see how generous and kind you are, and use that to their own advantage, but that’s not as bad as you not seeing how generous and kind you are. Your ability to love is one of your greatest gifts, you are a kind and loyal friend, and you should never feel ashamed for caring about those people in your life. There is so much power in your ability to be knocked back, let down, hurt and left over and over and yet still love and care. It just goes to show how caring you are.

Stop hurting yourself. You will spend a lot of time worrying about who you are. Am I smart enough? Pretty enough? Skinny enough? Do I make people laugh? Am I kind? Was I too honest? Did I give too much? Am I selfish? You are human, and nothing you ever do will be perfect, but be kind to yourself. It doesn’t matter whether your hair is long or short, if you have piercings or tattoos, and how much you weigh isn’t who you are. Who you are is in the loyalty you show to your friends, in the generosity you share with strangers, and above all, it’s who you are inside.

You are beautiful. You have so many qualities you should be proud of. You’re honest, you’re passionate, and you’re kind. Start to show this kindness to yourself. Instead of looking in the mirror and seeing what you think you should change so others love you, start loving yourself. Realising that loving who you are will make you stronger, and you don’t need to fix a certain box to be loved. Just look at all those people around you, friends who make you laugh, family who come when you need them, all those people around you who love and support you. Ignore those people who will tell you that boys only like long hair and slender girls. Those people who will say you aren’t funny enough, or rich enough, you don’t like the right music, or you’re not happy enough to be their friend. Don’t worry about it, you will find plenty of people who care about you. You have some great friends now, and your future holds even better ones. You don’t need the approval of those who seek to tear you down when you support and love yourself.

Finally, my last piece of advice, stop pushing people away. You’ve always done everything alone, and you often allow people to come into your life, but never allow them to love you or care for you. Let people help you without needing to ask. Allow peoples loving words and kindness and don’t fire back, or assume they’re lying. When someone tells you they love your cheeks, and your smile and your eyes, know that it’s because they love your cheeks, your smile and your eyes, and not because they have to say something nice. Know this because you should love those things about yourself, make sure every day to tell yourself something that you like.

Above all, keep going.

You’re doing great.

With love

Dawn

Who has any brothers or sisters?

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Family … what makes it?

I love my family, but it is incredibly complicated. Simple questions such as how many siblings do you have – leave me feeling like I am lying when I answer only 2. In some ways, I realise that it’s not just those of us who are adopted who have this complication – especially now there are so many ways of creating, making and blending families. Full siblings, half-siblings, genetically related, legally related, there are so many complexities and a myriad of ways to make up a family now.

Why then do I struggle so much? Who is my family? My parents – who adopted myself and my younger sister when I was 4 ½ – my mum and dad, absolutely no biological connection at all, but I look somewhat like them – not noticeably different. I have my full blood sister who looks identical to me. Then there is my parents birth children, born 8 and 10 years respectively after I was adopted, I am closer to them than anyone in the world, fiercely protective, and so full of love – something that biology can’t change, that is my family.

But what about the other side? My birth mother? My birth father? My birth mother had 2 children prior to having me, and my birth father had 4, so that’s 6 half siblings I share DNA and history with? Then earlier this year I discovered that my father had 2 more children from a previous relationship when he was much younger. So now I have 8 half birth sibling and one full blood sibling … then there was another baby in our home – that could have been my fathers, I’m not sure and I don’t think I will ever know. So that makes 9 half-siblings, one full-blood sibling, and two adopted sibling, two mums and two dads … that’s a lot to contend with.

I know that my mum is fiercely protective of me, she doesn’t like it when I call my birth parents my mum and dad, this isn’t from a place of jealousy or resentment just that the love she has for me is so strong that I think she baulks at the idea of the woman who carried me but was unable to care for me being afforded the same title that she has earned through endless nights of looking after me, loving me and caring for me when no one else would or even could. I understand and empathise with how she feels, no one will ever compare to her, when I’m poorly or have my heart broken or just need advice she is the first person, I go too. I can’t, however, reconcile that for me she is my mum, but I have another one.

Then my siblings – so endlessly complicated, I have 6 siblings I haven’t seen since I was a child, 1 sister from who I am estranged and 3 siblings I know almost nothing about – I’m not even fully sure they exist or are related to me. So perhaps when people ask me how many siblings I have and I say 2, partly I do so to avoid the complexities of explaining my family tree, but also it’s what feels right for me.

Brothers, sisters, full siblings, half-siblings, genetically related, legally related. The complexities, and innumerable options of ways to make-up a family. All I know is I love mine, and they forgive my mistakes, love my flaws, and support me indefinitely. My family, they know who they are.

Anger

Anger, locked up inside

Caged up tears, I try to hide

Peering at these photos, what do I see

Who are these people staring back at me?

I don’t like you very much, in fact I’m so very mad

But the anger I’m holding onto, makes me feel so bad

I don’t know why you lost me, or why I wasn’t enough

But the way you let me go made me strong and tough

I am loved, unconditionally, and always without restraint

Why then does my ability to give love and trust always feel so faint?

I know that this is my story, and you have your own

But I don’t think I’ll ever hear yours, I don’t want to pick up the phone

Sometimes I just want to scream, and yell and shout

Just sit there, empty myself and cry my history out

Other days I want to find you, fix us, mend and heal

But the schisms of my past aren’t something I’m ready to unseal

I’m not quite done with discovering who I’m meant to be,

But one day I won’t be angry, and that’s what I can’t wait to see.

Identity, Adoption and the politics of who I am …

Who am I? What defines me? Where are the gossamer threads that weave me into shape from? Who spun me? Identity, what makes us who we are, is something we all innately question. When you meet someone and you ask “what parent do you think you are like?” A culture of Instagram, Facebook and Twitter guiding us to a curated image of who someone might be. We try linking how someone’s schooling, social background, cultural beliefs and a myriad of other things to understand what makes the delicately crafted person who they are.

In turn we all introspectively question our own identities. Why do I believe this? What am I passionate about? What inspires me? Who am I?

How then do you deal with the repercussions of a conflicted identity? Of care records that inaccurately record your birthday wrong three times? Of a doctors record where you are noted to be left handed, and have blue eyes? When you are right handed and have brown eyes? Did I change that much? Was I too inconsequential for someone to remember me correctly? What is my value if my past is a collusion of other people’s incorrect facts?

In recent years events have dictated for me to look with renewed effort at who I am. I always claimed that my past may not define me. I realised however that it has shaped me, as one might carve a stone, my experiences must have narrated who I am. But how has it shaped me? What have I learnt? How do I carry my past with me? Part of this journey was to dissect the simply recorded facts of my past. Truthfully though, it was a journey to see if by pulling back the curtain on the past, I could understand myself today.

There is a certain fear when delving into your history, what if you the past you find is not good? You need strength to dissect harsh truths, especially as they can transform the person you are now. Many will say it how you respond to these truths speak to who you are right now.

It wasn’t so much that I wanted to know why I love to bake, or who I inherited my love of reading from, but rather who were these people who loved me so carelessly? Was I going to be like them? Them. My biological parents. Both products of their own misfortunes, simply being the people they had been brought up to be. So what if I with the same genes, 50/50 chromosomes, the same blood coursing, roaring, through my veins, was only ever capable of being just like them?

Then I realised that it doesn’t matter.

I am not just nature, I am not just chromosomes and genetics. I am not where I went to school, or where I live now. I am every lesson I have ever learned. I am a culmination of the life I chose to experience. I guide me. My past is not who I am. I am a girl who loves sprinkles on her ice cream, and bowling and arcade games. My identity, my capability, who I am is not dictated by my history or by case notes. I can chose who I want to be.