The post below was written by my youngest sister. I asked her some time ago to consider writing her experience as witness to my adoption trauma and collateral damage to the loss of my daughter, her first born niece.
She is a gifted writer. However, as I read this submission, it occurs to me this doesnt sound like her college educated, mature, current voice. It sounds a bit like her but also sounds like the voice of the thirteen year old she was at the time. Interesting how trauma can stunt the growth of certain parts of us.
I love my baby sister.
She said this has to come in blurbs. It hurts too much to write it all at once.
The title is hers.
I have wanted to share my side of this for a very long time, however never brought myself to it. Or, it never brought itself to me. The “it” that I refer to is my role in the adoption triad. I am part of it. I choose to be part of it. My sister did not.
I can bring myself back so clearly to the early days. We shared a room, and at 13 I would hear her cry herself to sleep every night. My sister, my savior. I always considered her that. She is the one who protected me, stood up for me and my rights when I was too weak, too young, too afraid. Now that I think about it, my own daughter will soon be 13. Funny to think about myself at her age.
But I digress. For the longest time I didn’t know why she was crying. They weren’t the usual biting tears of anger at our father; they were heart wrenching, deep sobs. Nothing could console her. Finally, one day I begged her to tell me what was wrong. She pulled me onto her bed, one leg folded up under her, the other hanging off the bed. She took my hands in hers and told me that she was pregnant. I can remember being shocked and sad, but not much after that.
What came next was a whirlwind. Plans were made that I knew nothing of. All that I knew was that she graduated and off she went to Chicago. And I was alone. I vaguely remember my mother going out to Chicago when her daughter was born. I missed my sister terribly. I was sad and lonely. I was sad and lonely for her. I could not begin to grasp what she was going through. All I knew was that I wanted her back. I wanted her to come back to me.
Fast forward 22 years. Let me put this out here now. I hate adoption. I hate what it has done to my sister. I hate that her daughter wants nothing to do with her. I hate that she has no idea what an amazing creature gave birth to her. I hate that she won’t even give my sister a chance. I hate that she won’t give herself a chance. I hate that she doesn’t know, doesn’t care to know that my sister expects nothing from her except recognition of the fact that she IS her mother. I don’t hate her. That’s absurd. How do you hate someone you don’t know? I hate the situation. I said to my sister yesterday that I thought her daughter needed a hug and then her ass kicked. My sister looked at me with those amazing green eyes of hers and said, “Isn’t that what people always said about me?” For the record, that is exactly what people always said about her.
Some argue that adoption is great…it’s for the best….the child is getting a chance at a better life…blah blah blah…kool-aid, anyone? I used to actually believe that foolishness. As my kids used to say, “Girlfriend, please”.
As my sister was my savior who protected me, stood up for me and my rights when I was too weak, too young, too afraid…where was hers?