I used to have a very strong opinion about the definition of a parent.  I would argue that a parent is not someone who gives birth to you, that’s the easy part, a parent is someone who is there every day through all of life’s ups and downs.  This was my “go to” spiel when I would inevitably have a conversation with someone about the fact that I was adopted.

My opinion on what defines a parent shifted when I went through pregnancy and childbirth and had children of my own.  I started questioning these ideas that were formed when I was a child.  Is it the easy part to give birth?  

Is it easy to give birth to a baby and then have that baby taken away and never seen again?  My birth mom carried me for nine months, went through the pain of labor and delivery, and then her baby(me) was immediately taken away. She had already signed the contract, I didn’t belong to her anymore.  She wasn’t allowed to even look at me, let alone touch me. That is just so awful—there are no words. It definitely does not sound so easy anymore.  

  Me saying that giving birth is the easy part and raising a child is the hard part, is naive and ridiculous.  But, I was living my life on the defensive knowing that I was being judged because I was adopted.  For some reason, I always felt the need to defend adoption which, as I’m writing this, I now realize translates to me defending my right to exist.  Thinking about this makes me feel really sad.  There is nothing easy about any of this.  It’s all hard.

Writing about all of this shit is hard.  It’s fucking hard.  I’m having to take anti-anxiety meds to get through it.  I am bound and determined to let my voice be heard because I am done living with the shame and guilt, pretending that my entire life has not been affected by the initial rejection and abandonment by my birth mother.  It’s deep in my sub-conscience—it feels cellular.  It has shaped everything about me.  

My stomach has been in a perpetual state of upset since I was a newborn.  My mom tells me that when I was just a few weeks old, I could not keep down formula. I would projectile vomit every time she tried to feed me. I was losing weight and she had to take me to the doctor.  They put me in the hospital and all I did was cry and cry, actually, she said it was more like I was screaming as if someone was torturing me.  The doctor took me to another area of the hospital for some tests and my mom stayed in the waiting room.  She said everyone was commenting about me because I was so loud it echoed through the halls.  The doctor came back and told my mom that he was positive about one thing, there wasn’t anything wrong with my lungs.  The tests didn’t reveal the cause of my stomach issues so he sent me home.  Not much has changed in 56 years, my stomach is upset right now.  Fortunately, I don’t projectile vomit anymore.

I have to keep reminding myself that my story is important even if it’s only important to me because, guess what, I am important.  I want to quit writing, but the pull to get through this is stronger than the desire to avoid the pain.