Cassandra,* Adoptee

*Cassandra’s documents

*This is a pseudonym, per the adoptee’s request.

I was about two years old when my adoptive mom told me I was adopted. To explain my adoption, she used a book that depicted parents shopping for a kid in store windows. My main memory of this moment is of a couple shopping for me instead of naturally having me. In that exact place and time, everything about who I thought I was changed. Although my adoptive Mom told me I was adopted, I was never allowed to ask questions, or talk about it. No one else really knew about it. If I did garnish the courage to ask my Mom, she would answer broadly “they were young and could not afford you,” then end with, "If you go and find them, it will kill me. I will have a heart attack and die.” I believed it because it was true.

When I was four my parents added to our family and adopted a baby boy after years of trying to conceive another baby naturally. This particular day I remember vividly. I woke up from a nap and my mom said, "your brother is coming." A car pulled up to the house, a woman got out of the front seat, unbuckled, holding a baby in her lap. She walked up to the door and handed my brother to my mother and simply turned around and left. My Dad was still in the shower. My mom said, "Thank you,” and shut the door. The woman didn’t even come inside. Suddenly, there was a second baby in our house and that was it. Not long after, one afternoon, there was banging on our front door, and my mom hid us in her bedroom upstairs. Recently, a social worker told me that in 1977 when I was adopted, they did quick, cursory checkups after adoptions, but in the era when my brother came, 1981, they had started to do more substantive checks on kids in adoptive homes. I remember my mom being terrified, and I felt concerned for her. She was not ready for a visit, and it seemed to me that she was worried that we would be taken away. It stuck with me.

When I was a kid, since I knew I had been given up by my birth parents, I worried that my adoptive parents would leave me behind, so when they left the house, for hours on end I would sit at my bedroom window and wait for them to get back, watching every car pass by. If they were gone for a long weekend and my grandparents were there watching us, I spent the time crying, not eating, and feeling very anxious that they would not come back. I was terrified of being left. This fear of people leaving and not coming back would stay with me in my consciousness for life.

I grew up knowing that I was a secret and a faux pas. When I was 16, I was at my brother's soccer game standing outside of a car packed with my mom and some of her friends who were trying to get warm.I could feel them all looking at me. One of them rolled down the window and yelled, "She just told us that you're adopted!"

I thought "Wait! I'm 16! You've known me all your life, and you're just finding out that my mom couldn’t have babies and adopted me?" It took 16 years for my mom to tell her friends about me. I felt shameful.

I also have memories of my adoptive mom talking about how important it was for her to have her medical history, and so I would ask if I could have mine. In the same maddening breath, she would tell me how unimportant it was for me to have my medical information. It was straight up nonsensical. It wasn't until I had my own kids and developed health issues as an adult that I really got angry with my adoptive mom about not being forthcoming. I always thought I was angry with my birth parents, but I realize as I learn and grow, that I'm angry with my mom because she shut down every chance of healing that I could have had. I believe I have an innate right to know about myself and where I come from. My mom still believes that I have no right to that information.

I sought out my birth family when I was engaged to be married, in my very early twenties, alongside my husband who was with me through the entire process of finding my birth family and discovering my new self. My mom told me I was adopted through Catholic Social Services, so my husband and I made an appointment with them. The meeting was attended by adoptees and their birth parents who were helping them hunt for their history. They told me my mom had lied, that I was not a Catholic Social Services baby; I was not on their records and therefore had not been put up for adoption through them. They referred me to my local orphans’ court system. I was wildly infuriated and stunned to learn that I had been lied to again. I contacted a social worker at the orphans’ court and she had me write a non-identifying letter saying, "Hi, I'm this person, I'm looking for this information, Thank you." From there, she sent that letter. The idea was that if that person's social security number was active, then they would find them. The social worker told me, "This is a needle in a haystack situation. It's never going to happen.”

Not long after, I received a letter stating that this woman existed, and that she wanted to give me information. I quickly signed off on that, and I got a call from the social worker not long after while I was sitting at work. She said she had good news. She'd gotten something from my birth mom. She asked if I could come down to grab what my birth mom had sent along. She told me there were pictures. I hung up the phone and walked out of my office. I didn't even tell my boss. I just left and drove straight there. I walked in and the social worker handed me a thick manila envelope. I didn’t look inside.

She sat me down and spoke to me very seriously, and I listened to her words very carefully. She said “Honey, whatever you do, do not jump into this. I have never seen anything like this before. Please take your time and go slow.” I agreed that I would go slow. Without looking inside the folder, I thanked her and left quickly. I drove home, envelope on my lap and hurried to my couch to open it. Inside there were photos and a long, long letter with answers to all my questions. My miracle! I saw the people that I came from. I saw my face in other people’s faces. I felt my soul lighten. My birth mother looks like my carbon copy; if I saw her in a store, I would absolutely say, "Did you ever give up a child?" Her mark on me is unbelievable.

The hardest part? It turned out that my birth parents were married when they had me and they stayed married for another 20 years and went on to have two more kids. They lived three towns over. That hurt me. That shook me. They were deeply in love, but my birth father did not feel it was right to keep me given their financial situation. At the time, they were living with his parents in their basement. His mom, my Nana, encouraged them to give me up, but the fact that my birth mother was adopted sealed the deal. I later learned that my birth mother’s obstetrician was my adoptive mothers gynecologist. It took me time to come to grips with that, but I’m told that was a common practice in that day and age. Either way, she had a wonderful life and wanted the same for me.

My birth mother and I took a lot of relationship-building “breaks” early on because there were a lot of factors at play, and it was so emotional. The children that my birth parents raised were 13 and 16 when I entered the picture, and I was in my early twenties. I blew up their life. Remember how the social worker said, “Whatever you do, do not dive into this?" Yea, well, I did the exact opposite. I called my birth mother that same night. A week later she sent me a package in the mail; it was a shampoo that she thought would be good for my hair. She sent me pictures of their wedding day with an arrow pointing to her belly, like, "you're in there!” To have answers to where I came from was healing, but finding her opened new wounds that I had never considered.

My birth mother told me that she was put to sleep for my birth, and I was taken from her before she woke up. She didn't even know I was a girl until a few years later when paperwork was sent to her by mistake. She said she didn't think about me again until she went through pregnancy and birth with my brother. Since she's adopted too, we were able to talk about this generational trauma. She searched for her birth mother, but she said it was impossible to find anything from that time although we have her birth mother's name. She has no interest in finding out any more information about where she comes from. Her soul is settled, and for that I am happy. Everyone deserves a settled soul. We still work on our relationship. I am proud of us.

My birth father and I became instant friends. We just have so much in common. He has been an important part of the twenty years that have passed since finding them. I am closer to him than I ever was to the dad who raised me. I see where I get most of my character traits now. I don’t think that my younger sister is a fan of me, so everyone keeps the two of us separate and I get it, not that it hurts any less;I understand the situation. They are good people. They care about me. The part that hurts most is seeing everyone gather without me or watching my birth parents with my brother and sister's children. They couldn’t do that with my kids, as this is all a secret. I know my children wish it was different and that they were closer. But there is still time.

It was such a healing process to learn my genetic history; I found out my birth father's dad died at 42 of heart disease which explains why I'm on blood pressure and cholesterol medicine. Before I learned my medical history, no one could ever understand the root of my blood pressure problems. To find out I have a genetic history of these things was so important. My adoptive mom was wrong in how she handled my medical information. Everyone should have a right to their most basic information.

Due to my mom’s threats of heart attacks and death, the fact that I searched for and found my birth family is a secret I still keep from her to protect her. At least, that is what I tell myself. I am angry with my adoptive parents for lying about where I came from. I don't really think it hit me until I became a mom and realized that the needs of my children were paramount. But my adoptive parents weren't willing to help me figure anything out.

I'm currently in therapy working on my adoption trauma and telling my adoptive mom that I’ve found my birth family. This therapy is helping me to process everything. It's hard work and deeply painful but very worth it. Now at the age of 44, I can recognize that I am so blessed to have found these people and to have them in my life. My birth brother and I have the most special relationship; our families have really bonded. We have become so close that if anything happens to my husband and me, he is in charge of our children, dogs and estate. We’re that close.

In the 70’s when I was born, adoption was viewed as a secretive, dirty thing. There is so much shame and as a result, I felt like a person nobody wanted, and that stuck with me and became a large part of me as a human. I feel like I'm way too much all the time. I am too much for everybody. I feel kind of desperate and I am so afraid of being abandoned, I overdo it to ensure people will stick around.

I think non-adopted people should treat adopted people with extra care and allow them to tell their stories and listen to them past the story. When I tell my story and people are like “Oh my god, that’s amazing,” then it's over. There is no more conversation. I have a happy reunion situation, , but the adoption trauma is never really over for me. Being adopted is a part of who I am, and it creeps into everything I do, think and say. I am who I am because I was adopted but I know that I am lucky to have found my birth family and to have been welcomed in all shapes and forms.