Thoughts of an Adoptee

It’s like a constant heartache every day
I miss my parents, but I don’t know them, so I can’t miss their personalities or them as people
Maybe they miss me too, but they can remember me. I don’t have memories of them
Maybe each day they wonder, “Did we do the right thing? We gave our child away.”
I wonder that too. Were they right? Is this a better life? With adoptive parents, a adopted brother, pets, a big house and garden, private school, nice holidays skiing or on the beach in the sun, etc, etc, but without the most important people in a kid’s life, their own parents
I know my adoptive parents would feel hurt, embarrassed, maybe even think that they were bad parents if they knew I felt this way, but I can’t feel any other way. I’ve tried and failed each time
My birth parents gave me up because my mum wanted a career before a family and they thought they might separate, so they thought it would be a better life for me if I were adopted
I’m sure they’re right, but my heart feels that they were wrong. I want them so much
I cry for them
I have pictures and information about them. I’m so lucky and I hate myself for feeling this way, but I don’t want pictures, I don’t want words, I WANT THEM!!!!
But as all parents say at some stage: ‘I want’ doesn’t get. I’ve learnt that, but I still long for them constantly
At Parents’ Evenings at school, they’re not there.
When I perform in school plays, they’re not there.
When I find out my exam results, they’re not there.
When I get depressed, they aren’t there to cheer me up.
My adoptive parents feed me, clothe me, house me, love me, care for me, everything parents could do, but I feel as though they’re faking it. Not the love, I know they love me as I love them, but they’re pretending to be a happy family, as no doubt they think we are, but I’m not happy.
I tell myself to be happy, my birth parents would hate me to be upset on their behalf, but I can’t control my feelings and I hate myself for feeling this way.
I see other people with their parents, arguing with them as I do with my adoptive parents, but I think to myself, why do they do that? At least they live with their real parents, they know what they’re like, they can talk to them, they don’t just look at photos and wonder what their parents are like.
When I look in a mirror, I wonder where my dark eyebrows come from, my long eyelashes, my blue eyes, my small nose, my body, my impossibly curly hair, my eczema. The papers I have say a lot and so do the pictures, but they’re not my parents. My grandparents, uncles, aunts, any possible cousins, or even brothers or sisters, probably don’t even know I exist and probably won’t want to know me, even when I am old enough to find my family.
I’ve had so many fantasies of meeting my birth parents everywhere, ranging from at school or in the park to at McDonalds or on holiday. When I actually do meet them, they might not want to know me. Their husband or wife, if it’s not my other parent, might hate me. Their kids might hate me. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins might not want to know me.
I’ve dreamt of them being married to each other, to other people, not being married, wanting me, not wanting me, with other kids, without other kids. I’ve dreamt so much; I’ve even thought they might be dead.
But my heart still tells me, whenever I go and whatever I do, they’ll always love me and want me as much as I want them