Nicole Lee April 12th, 2008
I’ve always been at least a little upset when people talk about their young childhood. Things like what their first word was, when they started walking, or even how old they were when they started using the toilet. Why? Because I don’t know any of those things about myself. I was given up for adoption at two and a half. I missed “baby’s first birthday” and all those special little memories. I don’t know my heritage or anything about my extended family’s background, except for the half a page of limited medical information we got about our maternal and paternal sides of the family.
I have a hard time watching my friends and their families as well. Because of the first few years of my life, and the way my brother and I were treated, I missed a lot of important steps in toddler development stages that make relationships at this stage in the game a very difficult endeavor for me.
But even with all the things that weigh on me because of that, I never really wished to meet the people that birthed me. There is no real desire in my heart to stand face to face with the people that gave me away. Maybe it’s selfish and naive of me to believe that there is no “good” reason for letting your child go, but deep down I can’t escape that. I mean, how do you care for a child, your flesh and blood, your future and legacy, your responsibility, for almost three years before you decide you just can’t do it? Aren’t you supposed to get more attached the longer you have your kids? Isn’t there some biological mechanism that screams, “THIS IS MY JOB! I CANNOT FAIL!”? I guess that’s idealistic of me, or maybe I just can’t stand the thought that my parents didn’t want me and that I wasn’t good enough for them.
Anyway, for the first time that I remember I dreamed about them last night. In the dream I was reading a newspaper article about a man and woman who had died in a car accident, but it wasn’t until the last line that my dream revealed it was them that had died. It then switched to a crashing airplane, and they died again. Finally, in a subway or on a train they had their third and final death of the night. It is odd to me that in twenty-one years the only thing I can pull out of my brain is their deaths. I don’t know if it’s because I want them to die, or if it’s just my subconscience saying, “You don’t need them, and you’ll be who you are no matter what.”
I cried for a while about it. I called my mom and asked if she still had their (my biological parents) contact information. She said she probably did, somewhere, and that she’d dig it out for me. Then I cried some more. Even if I had all of the information I don’t know what I’d do with it. Can you imagine how awkward that conversation would be? “Hi…I’m Nicole…are you mother?” I don’t think I could do it. Same for a letter. What would you say?
Dear Mr. _____,
My name is Nicole…and I think I’m your daughter.
Jarren told me I’m strong, that he wouldn’t be able to deal with something like this. I told him it’s really just cowardice. I could never contact them. What if it had nothing to do with them not being able to take care of us? What if it was just that they didn’t was us? Didn’t want me. I don’t think I could handle that rejection.
I’m rambling now. I don’t know why I’m posting this. I think it might be a little too personal or turn into a pity party- which I don’t want. I’m a big kid. I’m fairly successful, though I’ve made my mistakes, I’m recovering from them. I’ve learned a lot of things the hard way, but for all it’s worth I’ve come out on top. I’m happy with what I have. My boyfriend loves me more than I thought was possible, I have a group of friends that couldn’t be more amazing, and I have a set of parents and an extended family that’s put all the time and effort in that they could muster. Really, there is nothing more that I could ask for. I guess I’m just trying to work through it all, and figure out what my brain is asking me to find. I’ll get there, though. I just don’t know how to fail.
