Lucky

It was nearly midnight on the eve of my 46th birthday when it hit me: We don’t separate animals from their mothers before eight weeks; why on earth do we do this to humans? This epiphany was followed rather quickly by the chorus of things well-meaning people have said throughout my life. Quietly at first, and then louder. Don’t you know how lucky you are?

You’re so lucky. Lucky you had a privileged life. Lucky you were adopted. Lucky you got to live. Lucky you weren’t aborted.

Lucky.  

Born in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1975, I learned about my adoption before my fourth birthday, mere days before we got my little brother. My mom read a book describing the concept of adoption to me, setting such a loving tone that I started telling anyone who would listen that I was chosen especially for my parents. Chosen by God! Through my parents I learned about the boy from New Orleans and the gal from Mississippi who had done the right thing by giving me up for adoption. Of course, that story relies upon the assumption that this was an autonomous decision made by my teenage birth parents in the mid-1970s. Since my parents also hailed from the Gulf Coast, I spent many holidays there enjoying time with my family while searching for faces which may have resembled my own. Each potential hurricane caused my stomach to churn with worry for my people. When Katrina hit, I was especially fearful for their safety, these strangers to whom I felt so connected. I donated blood, collected money, gathered donations, water, and supplies. Every woman on the television became my first mom, every man my first dad. 

I was four days old when mom and dad picked me up from a courtroom in Gulfport. Many times they have recounted the tale of the judge warning them that they were about to adopt a very sick baby, that I may not live. Still my parents insisted, I was already theirs, they had the means to provide the care I needed, and they couldn’t possibly turn me away. So, the adoption was finalized and we headed north to Columbia, Mississippi, to my Momo and Popo's house where they waited along with my big sister, also adopted. After a few days we left Mississippi and headed home to Kansas City, Kansas. The birthplace of predigested formula. The only formula my undeveloped digestive system could handle. The formula upon which my life would very literally depend for the first three years of my life.  

Pretty lucky, right?

Growing up with this narrative I really did feel like the luckiest kid in the world. And let's face it, in many ways I was. Physically, I favored my dad so much that for a time I was convinced that his sister was my first mom. My mom was a favorite among my friends who often referred to her as June Cleaver. She threw creative birthday parties, took us berry picking, prepared the most delicious meals, and spent summers watching us swim at the country club pool. We had such a full life. We wanted for nothing and were provided for in every way, so it's no wonder that I never associated my low self-esteem, sense of not belonging, or social anxiety with my adoption. Instead of reveling in my good fortune, I found myself feeling as if I had been plucked from one world and plopped down into another, much like Alice after taking the shrinking potion in Wonderland. Uncomfortable in this world, I turned inward. My appearance served as a mask, allowing me to fit in on the outside even while my insides were tied in knots, a constant state of anxiety, hypervigilance, and play-acting. I mastered the art of play acting, fake it 'til you make it, right? I told myself it was me: there is something wrong with me. Because no matter how good I had it, I never felt like I truly belonged anywhere.

Facing some midlife health issues and without the medical history required to make an informed decision, my husband gifted me an at-home DNA and medical information kit. I spit into that little tube on my 43rd birthday and put it in the mail the same day. When completing my profile in the app, I chose to make it public and included what little information I had about my birth and adoption. My primary goal was medical information; anything else was cake. And while I knew making connections was a possibility, actually finding and connecting with my birth parents was beyond comprehension. I truly did not grasp the lightning speed at which things would unfold. Six weeks later, on April Fool's Day, I received my results. What happened over the next eight days would forever change my life and the lives of my entire family, adoptive and biological. The results connected me with over 1,100 blood relatives, two of whom are cousins. Within the first four days, my cousins had identified my first mom and many siblings, aunts, and uncles. On the eighth day my first mom and I shared our first phone conversation.

In that moment I felt the gulf within me, the one I was unaware existed, fill with the warmth and knowing I had longed for. That was my first clue - we were never real.

This is where my quest for knowledge, information, and greater understanding about the impact of adoption on people adopted at birth began. I have worked with adoptive families and children from the child welfare system throughout my career, I have worked at a pregnancy shelter with women who were not prepared to have a baby, and I have worked with and researched the mental health impact of transnational and transracial adoption, but when I went looking for information about adoption specific challenges facing people adopted at birth, there was little to no research that reflected my lived experience.

I will use this space to share knowledge, my story, resources, links, and other content. If there is something you would like to see here or something you would like for me to share, reach out to me at adoptiontraumaspectrum@proton.me

Warmly,

Ashley

(An excerpt from Down the Rabbit Hole: The Mental Health Implications of Adoption Trauma on People Adopted at Birth; Reflections: Narratives of Professional Helping)