Random Rememberings

It was probably fourth or fifth grade when the wonder of being adopted started wearing off. Sure, my parents told me they chose me. But, grade-school-me realized they were choosing a baby, and at the time, it happened to be me. It could have been someone else, but I was available when they wanted a baby. Now, I'm not saying it was random because I know it wasn't. God placed me in my parents' lives and them in my life, and it truly was a match made in heaven. That became truth to me years later.

But when I was old enough to understand that I was available to be chosen only because someone else didn't want me, it hit pretty hard. My elementary self was incapable of entertaining the thought that my birth mother thought she was doing what was best for me, and maybe for her too. All I could repeatedly hear in my mind was, "Why didn't she want me? Why? Why?"

So, being the child I was with a pretty active imagination, I created a scenario that explained why she could not keep me. My birth mother was a homeless person. She lived on the streets and fought for every scrap of food she could find. This explanation was the only reason that made sense to me.

I became obsessed with these thoughts, and one day, my mom asked me what was wrong while we were both in the car. Unable to keep my feelings inside about this facet of my adoption, I spilled out the words. "She had to be a street person, homeless. Is that why she gave me up?" I was crying, and my mother, not one generally blessed with patience, was abnormally patient with me. She held me, let me cry, probably cried with me, and tried to explain that she was sure my mother had wanted to keep me but just couldn't. She didn't know her circumstances, but she didn't think she was homeless. This may have been the first time mom told me that if I ever wanted to find her, she and dad would help.

My mother was kind that day, and I don't mean for it to sound like she wasn't always kind. On the contrary, she and dad were very kind and generous. However, she wasn't always patient.  This time, though, she was kind and patient, but even so, a root took hold of my heart and mind. The root of rejection. It would be years before I realized this for what it was, and more years finding the tools to uproot this negative influence in the core of my being.

I'm not unique in feeling rejected from being adopted. And of course, any unhealthy relationship can breed rejection, but I’d say many adoptees feel deep rejection at some point. And often following rejection is performance-based behavior. Yearning for acceptance, I learned to play the "please like me" game. I would act the way I thought people wanted me to, so they would like me. I learned to perform. Now, I didn't have to perform for my parents to love me. I know that now. But I didn't believe it when I was 10, 15, 20, or 25. I started believing in my 30's. Unfortunately, while generous and loving, my parents didn't make it easy to believe either, as they had strict behavior requirements. If we didn't behave correctly, there were consequences. When we were good, there wasn't a lot of praise or encouragement, so there was a lot of striving to be better and better.

For several years I tried to be good. Really good. Really, I tried. But by seventh grade, I was worn out and started imploding. I could be pretty good at school, but my emotions were running wild by the time I got home, and I often exploded in anger at my family. Mom and Dad were always in awe of how my teachers spoke about me so lovingly. I'm sure they wondered about my two personalities. I wasn't that same person when I was home. But I realize now that I must have felt safe at home to allow all those emotions to run free. I must have known somewhere deep inside me that no matter how angry and mean I was, they wouldn't give me back. I wasn't going to get kicked out. They were showing me a version of God's love that I wouldn't understand for years to come.