by JeanWidner | Jun 28, 2023 | Adoptee Stories
Within the sub-culture of adoption, few theories are as celebrated and simultaneously controversial as “The Primal Wound”. The book with the same name, written by Nancy Verrier in 1993, calls out the idea that separating an infant from its mother is always inherently traumatizing.
Adopted people flocked to the book, many crying out, “finally someone understands how I’ve always felt.” Others have called it dangerous because they say it creates generalized views that all adoptees are “damaged” and perpetuates negative stereotypes. Adoptive or would-be adoptive parents have called the book and the theory “terrifying” because they feel it sets up a scenario for failure from the beginning.
One huge issue for many adoptees is that the debate in and of itself is yet one more way others dictate to them about how they should feel about their adopted lives – especially when many wish to see simplistic descriptions of what are far more complex and nuanced experiences.
What is the primal wound theory?
The premise is that all newborns come into the world with already deep and knowing bonds biologically and psychologically formed with their mother in utero. Babies in the womb hear and know their mother’s voice and those around them. They become accustomed to the smells and cuisine of the mother as it is their sole source of food and sustenance. It has also been theorized that seeping through the amniotic fluid are hormonal messages conveying the mother’s emotional state around the pregnancy.
In return, the baby is sending stem cells into the mother’s blood stream throughout pregnancy, causing the mother to instinctively react to the minute changes and movements of her unborn child. Therefore, within the first moments of birth a known, tangible bond exists between this new life and its mother.
As infants, all humans are completely dependent upon those around them. So, when that infant is then passed over to a “new mother” for care and feeding, on a deep level that baby knows it is not with the same mother. Intricately woven into that bond is also the idea the mother will automatically seek her baby and work hard to obtain him or her over any other.
But then, what does the subconscious mind of that infant register when the mother it knows does not appear no matter what it does? That is one of the many questions raised by the theory – what is the unconscious reaction to this perceived abandonment?
This is the root of the primal wound trauma. The natural mother is made bereft by an adoption, and the infant has also experienced a profound loss. Since an infant cannot clearly express itself, what it feels or thinks, is unknown.
Critics of The Primal Wound
Adoptees are not all in agreement everyone has vast and deep wounds of separation. Some clearly bond with the message while others reject it whole-heartedly. That debate divides the community, creating a rift in philosophy and varied views on adoption. Those who believe the “wound” theory will dismiss those who do not saying they are in denial. This same bias has the potential to influence and affect the validity of any serious study of the concept.
Some professionals dismiss the premise entirely. Dr. Charles Nelson is a Professor of Pediatrics at Harvard Medical School and a leading expert on how early childhood neglect, abuse, and other negative parental environments affect children. He said in an interview in 2013, “there is no scientific evidence to support the primal wound theory that all adopted people carry a scar from being separated from biological parents.”[1]
He states countless people who have been adopted especially in the first two years, but even beyond, are doing great, and “a theory that says just because they were separated from their birthmother leaves a permanent wound is just false on the face of it.”[2]
Dr. Ellen Kempt, Ph.D., who has forty-three years’ experience in pediatrics and is the former director of the Oak Adoptive Health Center, says, “I disagree with the thought of a “wound.” To me it’s an opportunity. I mean, adoption is a choice and desire, they (adoptive children) spent nine months in the middle of the environment of a birth mom who gave them love and nourishment. But the next step is a forever adoptive home. So, I just don’t at all see it as a wound.”[3]
Clarity is needed around the very word “wound” itself. The trauma that Verrier is getting at is the trauma an infant may feel by being relinquished, which is different from calling adoption a traumatic event.
At issue also in this debate is the difference between clinical evidence and scientific evidence to verify an idea or premise.
Clinical evidence is defined as a psychologist or other mental health professional making broader observations about the patients he or she is working with and forms a basis of opinion from that work. This is highly suggestive because of personal bias and the types of patients that a clinician is attracting to their practice. In other words, those in the adopted population who define themselves as happy, well-adjusted people are unlikely to seek clinical intervention, and by that selection become a “silent majority”.
Scientific evidence sets a higher bar as a variety of independent studies are created to evaluate behavior and assess root causes in an impartial review of a wider cross-section of individuals for study.
Many believe that because Verrier’s research for the book is based in part on her own experience along with largely clinical evaluation, that this alone leaves the premise suspect.
Another critic of her work is Dr. Michael Grand, author of the book The Adoption Constellation (with Jeanette Yoffe). He criticizes not the premise itself so much as the solution she proposes. He says, “[The Primal Wound] captures for some adoptees the experience of pain and grief and loss that so many others have denied to them and in that sense, it’s a very important and moving book. I was moved as I read it.”[4]
He points out that the notion of attachment upon which the idea is based means the child who is adopted experiences that loss of the first parent, and then always carries that forward to the new parent. Verrier’s assessment that the pain of separation can then potentially (or always) be solved by reunion. But reunion is not always helpful for either party. He further states that “The research shows clearly that the relationship between one’s early experience and the predictability of later behavior, that the relationship is weak (it’s not a strong relationship).”[5]
Also of concern is the conclusion many draw from the book is that it creates a “victim” mentality for adopted children. There is a significant difference between feeling you were victimized by something that happened to you, versus being a victim taken on as a personal identity.
How significant the primal wound trauma may be and the extent of its impact, the validity of its existence, and how universal that may be, is what fires up such a vast debate – even by people who have read and appreciate Verrier’s work.
Supporting Research
What is interesting is when one seeks independent research about the primal wound premise, the study leads one into biology and natural science explorations rather than psychology. Significant research has been done on maternal and infant separation on mammals ranging from mice to monkeys.
Many studies have been done on rodents, showing early life stressors including maternal separation “affect both acute and long-term development of neuroendocrine, cognitive, and behavioral systems”[6] In studies on rats it has been shown that separating the pups from their mothers, even when receiving feeding and care from other rat “mothers”, behavior changes are observed similar to anxiety or depression. Prolonged separation appears to increase these results when compared to the control group, (not separated pups). Even as adults, the maternally separated rats displayed abnormal behaviors, particularly in lowered food consumption and an increased startle response, indicating anxiety.[7]
Other models with rhesus monkeys show when separated from their mothers within the first six months of life, these subjects “demonstrate increased distress and passive behaviors” compared to their peers who were maternally raised. The monkeys also have increased cortisol (stress hormone) and display “diminished ability to handle stressful events and exhibit numerous exaggerated behaviors” compared to those raised by their mothers.[8]
Another study on rodents does show differences in these responses based upon the gender of the animal. In general, maternal separation appeared to affect the female rats more than the male rats when exposed to the same types of traumatic stress. Both male and female rats, however, were more likely to develop post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) as adults if they have experienced early life stressors. [9]
One article produced in Australia regarding newborns to two years of age, says trauma of all sorts can have a “serious effect on babies and toddlers”, and that, “many people wrongly believe that babies do not notice or remember traumatic events. In fact, anything that affects older children and adults in a family can also affect a baby, but they may not be able to show their reactions.”[10]
The article also notes regardless of the cause of the separation, the infant will not only register the loss of that parent, but the infant is also coping with their situation. The stressors induced by having to manage that within a baby whose mind and nervous system is not capable of understand what is happening, is in and of itself, potentially damaging. Furthermore, this trauma can make its ability to bond with its parental caregivers more challenging.[11]
In comparing the mental health of adopted adults with the general population, clearly something is amiss. Adoptees are four times more likely than the general population to attempt or commit suicide.[12] Beyond general feelings of unhappiness or depression, identity disorders are also nearly four times more common in adopted adults compared to non-adoptees.[13] According to a survey of adult adoptees done in 2019, “With the large percentage of adults in this study who reported dissociative experiences, it appears that dissociation may be a coping mechanism which is well established by the time an adult client seeks treatment.“[14]
The debate continues around the number of studies done and the credibility of the methods, but most of the study done to date certainly at least implies that adopted children and adults are experiencing more difficulties than their non-adopted counterparts.
The Way Forward
Assume for a minute Verrier’s work is correct and accept the notion that any infant separated from its natural mother will know, and its forming subconscious mind registers this as a traumatic event. Also assume this can impact the infant’s ability to bond with its new adopting parents.
What now? In the work shared by Michael Grand, Ph.D., he points out while being adopted is certainly pivotal in the developing psyche of a child, is it the sole factor? Almost all children have pains, struggles, and events that will affect them in their growth and development. In other words – adoption is certainly not nothing, but it may not be everything, either, in the psychological formation of that human being.
Plenty of children struggle to bond with distant or emotionally unhealthy biological parents, act out in school, have huge struggles through the hormonal barrage of their teen years, and feel unheard, unloved, and unseen by their families. Sadly, many people desperately lack emotional connections with those around them.
However, those “looking in” at adoption often fail to understand this population for whom is denied a blood, familial or close connection – they are the only group told how “grateful” they should feel for their situation. Imagine being told someone should feel lucky for their loss, their trauma, or even their abuse? It is this frustration at not being validated for their feelings, that has so many adopted people later in life rising up with the need to shout, rather than continue to whisper their pain.
Maybe the truth lies somewhere else. The scientific debate around the concept may never be agreed upon. Even researchers who have done the above-mentioned work on primates cite that to conduct the same research on human infants would be too cruel.
With that acceptance, maybe the way to look at the primal wound is less literal, and the profundity of Verrier’s prose lies elsewhere. For those who keenly feel the premise explains their thoughts, what if the power is in asking adoptees to “lean in” to the psychological pain they feel rather than hide from it? If large numbers of adopted adults have rallied around the book and its ideas, then they should not be dismissed. Many adoptees state that when they were young there was no language that matched their experience. Then as adults, they seek to define their feelings in clearer terms, there are still no words. Verrier’s book gives them those tools.
If one accepts that philosophy, then psychologists and parents who completely dismiss the primal wound, do so at the peril and well-being of their children. If those surrounding adoptees are open to more insightful ways to help them hear and respond to these children, then, more the better.
Language has always evolved around updated needs of expression, and if the book has done nothing else, it has brought a completely new verbiage that carries significant value to the foreground of the adoption conversation. What has been buried and undefined is now visible at the surface – ready to be healed.
Which then begs the question, does healing exist for those who need it – and how is that achieved?
As Dr. Marcy Axness, PhD writes, “There are those who consider the primal wound to be a platform for adult adoptees to do yet more blaming and complaining, rather than ‘getting on with their lives’…But only having walked into that emptiness inside me, and felt it – finally, deeply – and grieved it. This in my hard-won experience, is what effective healing is about: not ‘fixing’ it, but facing it.”[15]
When talking to Sharon McNamara, Ed.D., L.P., adoptee, and adoption competent therapist, she shares, “You’ve got these kids, the relinquishment trauma is primary. Then you’ve got other trauma on top of that. And then the acting out… I do the grief work of this really, really, horrible thing that happened when you were a baby, and you have feelings about that. Let’s touch those feelings and let you cry. You need a compassionate therapist who is capable of hearing that level of pain.”
Regardless of the primal wound discussion, themes emerge around healing that are consistent. There are also common strategies parents can follow to help infants who become children, then teens, and finally adults to process these emotions more successfully. They revolve around love, openness, respect, forming a positive narrative with the child and most importantly letting them tell the adults in their lives how they feel, instead of the other way around. That they matter just for being themselves.
A parent may say, “I love you as if you were my own.” What the adopted child thinks is, “Why am I not your own?” Dissolving that barrier is not easy, but essential to help them feel safe – and it’s a concept that will have to be reinforced continuously.
Amy D. Alessandro, LMHC, adoptee, birth mother, and adoption & trauma therapist says, “Can the trauma of infant separation be healed? I wouldn’t do this work if I didn’t believe that was possible.” Her practice, Adoption Savvy, specializing in almost all facets of adoption competent therapies, says, “Will they be as if they had never had adoption trauma? To me, it’s like if your arm was severed in a terrible accident, could you still live a fulfilling life? Yes. You wouldn’t live the same life if you had both of your limbs. You would have to adapt. It’s going to look different, but you can have a happy functioning life. We can get there, but it is hard work.”
Some may cringe at this analogy, but anyone who has experienced some life-altering event will say they are forever changed by it. They carry it with them and must learn to thrive either because of, or despite, it. The world needs to understand that regardless of how one views adoption – lives are forever changed by it – sometimes for the good, but often with a mix of darkness within. Adoption is paradoxical, always.
There is another worthy lore that might be useful. Within the Alcoholics Anonymous Twelve-Step teachings, when trying to cover vast ideas that will apply to some, or many, but not all, there is a phrase, “Take what you want and leave the rest.” Maybe this outlook has some value as applied to the adoption community and these discussions with so much generalized opinion around so many individual lived experiences. A theory or explanation can fit part of one’s life, and not others – let that be OK for one another in the community.
No one should have the language of the primal wound thrust upon them, most especially as children who may have trouble reconciling its depth, and then pre-disposing them to the bias of being “victims” or “damaged goods.”
What it comes down to for many is to give emotional space. Children deserve to speak their minds and express their feelings in productive ways that do not revolve around a narrative, or what their parents or society expects of them. That includes their feelings about being or looking different, or not fitting in, and curiosity about a first family or another mother.
Adoptees all process their experience differently. Their views are as vast as the stars. Moreover, that will likely change throughout their lives as they age, possibly become parents themselves and pass key milestones that cause them to re-evaluate their feelings about being adopted. It is a lifelong journey for most.
What they are fighting for, more loudly and clearly than ever, is the right to define their own experience. In so doing, it is worth noting that dismissing any individual’s point of view for not fitting a narrative, whether an old one or a new one, is harmful to the larger cause – to be heard, valued, and understood.
[1] Davenport, D. (2021, April 26). Does the primal wound really exist?. Creating a Family. https://creatingafamily.org/adoption-category/does-primal-wound-really-exist/
[2] Davenport, D. (2021, April 26). Does the primal wound really exist?. Creating a Family. https://creatingafamily.org/adoption-category/does-primal-wound-really-exist/
[3] YouTube. (2012, February 8). Can an adoptee ever overcome his or her “Primal wound?” YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLcH4wT2nKQ
[4] YouTube. (2020, November 5). Primal wound new theory with Michael Grand author of adoption constellation | Jeanette Yoffe. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZgsbk17UQw&t=80s
[5] YouTube. (2020, November 5). Primal wound new theory with Michael Grand author of adoption constellation | Jeanette Yoffe. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZgsbk17UQw&t=80s
[6] Neurobiological consequences of childhood trauma – the Journal of … (n.d.). https://www.psychiatrist.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/15380_neurobiological-consequences-childhood-trauma.pdf
[7] Neurobiological consequences of childhood trauma – the Journal of … (n.d.). https://www.psychiatrist.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/15380_neurobiological-consequences-childhood-trauma.pdf
[8] Neurobiological consequences of childhood trauma – the Journal of … (n.d.). https://www.psychiatrist.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/15380_neurobiological-consequences-childhood-trauma.pdf
[9] Knox, D., Stout-Oswald, S. A., Tan, M., George, S. A., & Liberzon, I. (2021, November 12). Maternal separation induces sex-specific differences in sensitivity to traumatic stress. Frontiers. https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fnbeh.2021.766505/full
[10] Department of Health & Human Services. (2010, January 27). Trauma and children – newborns to two years. Better Health Channel. https://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/health/healthyliving/trauma-and-children-newborns-to-two-years
[11] Department of Health & Human Services. (2010, January 27). Trauma and children – newborns to two years. Better Health Channel. https://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/health/healthyliving/trauma-and-children-newborns-to-two-years
[12] Keyes MA, Malone SM, Sharma A, Iacono WG, McGue M. Risk of suicide attempt in adopted and nonadopted offspring. Pediatrics. 2013 Oct;132(4):639-46. doi: 10.1542/peds.2012-3251. Epub 2013 Sep 9. PMID: 24019414; PMCID: PMC3784288
[13] McLamb, Lee J., “A Survey of Dissociation, Identity Distress, and Rejection Sensitivity in Adult Adoptees” (2019). Honors Undergraduate Theses. 606
[14] McLamb, Lee J., “A Survey of Dissociation, Identity Distress, and Rejection Sensitivity in Adult Adoptees” (2019). Honors Undergraduate Theses. 606.
[15] In appreciation of the primal wound – creating a family. (n.d.-a). https://creatingafamily.org/wp-content/uploads/in%20appreciation%20of%20the%20primal%20wound.pdf
by JeanWidner | Jun 9, 2023 | Adoptee Stories, Birth Parent
From deep inside the womb, I know both love and sadness. They ripple through my blood, my bones, and intertwine to create the essence of me.
This invisible truth sits inside, certain, a spark that will not die. Like the campfire that no matter how much dirt or water you douse it with, an unseen whiff of breeze keeps the embers glowing. I tend it closely.
***
My mother lives in the bungalow. The house that is not a home where she has been sent to have me and give me up to God and the powers that swirl around her. Other girls are with her. They mirror her story. At the age of eighteen and unwed, she has been sent halfway across the country from the only place she has ever lived.
Beyond the shame of her circumstances, are other pains. Her stepfather of the past five years is not only the Chief of Police, but abusive to both her and her mother. Nothing will happen to him in that small North Dakota town. He can do as he pleases with his women.
***
I come kicking and squealing onto this earth at 11:30 in the morning on April 21st, 1965. With this first breath I already feel my mother’s love. She has spoken without words her hopes and fears of the last nine months. I have drunk from her soul, fed on the unseeable parts of her, grown and thrived despite the desperation of her world. I know only her.
My father, a young, enlisted soldier met her at a dance two years prior. They dated, broke up, but reunite. He is then transferred from the nearby air base all the way to Alaska. He says he will not marry her. Not only because he sees no way he can support them, but also because of their religious differences.
My mother is Catholic and he a serious Methodist. Organized religion has thoroughly indoctrinated these two young people into believing they are too different to build a life together.
More has been done with less, but the constraints of their society show no respite from its pressures.
***
In the bungalow, letters come and go. Phone calls provide no answers. No peace. She recovers from her labors and prays. And curses. And weeps. She holds me and feeds me, maybe even from her breast.
Social workers give advice. “Oh honey, it will all work out. You’ll see, this will all be for the best.” There is only one story allowed in this house, and it is that she must do this, give me away for both her well being and mine. No other options are considered.
***
They bring me to her daily. I know her voice from the womb, know her smell. Within my bundle I feel her fear, her sadness, and her anger. I wonder how many times she cries.
Fifty years later in her darkest nights, does she think of me?
She gives me no formal name, but many of these young women have a ‘crib name’ for their babies. I do not know mine.
***
In the bungalow, there are more words from the experts who guide her, “If you name her, it will be harder on you to let her go.” For days she continues to recover. Her youth feels heavy on her shoulders as she prays to her omnipotent God that provides no new answers.
Eventually the letters and the calls and the unfairness of it all wring her out. She is left with only her shed tears and dying hopes and finds she has no choice.
***
Nine days after I was born, she walks into a courtroom and signs the papers that leave her bereft. I am no longer hers, and she is no longer mine. By the act of a pen and the closed minds that surround her, a woman she will never see again carries me away to be raised by another mother.
But before she goes, I dream, that the last moment she sees me, she reaches out one more time. Within the blanket wrapped tightly around me, her hand brushes the air by my puffy cheeks and barely touches my hair. And that speck of flame comes to life with the tiniest breeze that no one else can feel but me.
by Guest Post | Apr 10, 2023 | Adoptee Stories
This is a guest post, written by Dirk Uphoff
Back in the Summer of 1968, my family and I went on vacation to visit my Aunt, Uncle and Cousins. This was not our typical Summer vacation of fishing up North. This particular summer vacation, we drove the entire way from Central Illinois to Nashville, Tennessee.
I was eight years old then, and my older brother was getting ready to turn thirteen. I remember thinking my brother would become a teenager, which for me was such a cool thing!
My parents told me we would be driving through Kentucky, so I made them promise that we would eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was certain I would get a chance to meet Colonel Sanders. Wow, I was so excited!
But of all the things I was looking forward to, nothing compared to the fact that once we arrived at my Uncle’s, we were going to have dinner at the Country Club!
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but my brother said it was going to be really good and really fancy. So I was beside myself with anticipation. This would prove to be the best vacation ever!
During our drive South, I remember talking incessantly about the Country Club. I’m sure I was driving my parents up the wall and probably got my little sisters talking about it too. Once we finally arrived, I remember telling my Aunt how excited I was about going to the “Country Club.”
After spending a day or so at my uncle’s house having fun with my cousins, I remember my aunt started to talk about her famous blueberry pancakes. I liked pancakes, but I had never heard of blueberry pancakes! Every time our paths crossed, she reminded me of those blueberry pancakes.
I will never forget what happened. On the day we were going to the Country Club, my Aunt said she had a surprise for me. With bated breath, I looked up at her as she told me we weren’t going to that “busy” Country Club. We were going to stay there and have blueberry pancakes instead!
I tried to hide my disappointment, but doubt I did a good job of it. I remember looking at my Mom and seeing a combination of anger and sadness on her face, yet covered up by a weak smile.
You may have guessed by now that I’m a transracial adoptee. My first Mom was White, and my first Dad was Black. We know what that makes me in 1968 Nashville.
We never saw much of my Aunt and Uncle from Nashville after that. I didn’t know why then. I do now.
by JeanWidner | Feb 22, 2023 | Adoptee Stories
The mother who raised me was an addict. She and my father adopted me, but I’m not sure why. In 1962 when you got married, you started a family. Those were the rules. Never mind that my mother had already begun her dark slide into depression and addiction. The dual burdens that would haunt her psyche and mine for the formative years of our intertwined lives.
Now, as an adult, it is impossible for me to separate the effects of growing up adopted from the problems of being raised with addiction.
See one of Monty Python’s Flying Circus cartoons with my head in the center. The cartoon image springs to life and takes a can opener to me. Creak, creak, creak, and pops my head open like a Pez dispenser. Two hands come down into my brain and start rummaging around in the muck that is me. Two signs sit to the left and right – one says adoption, the other addiction. A hand pulls out one pile of goo and vacillates, wobbling between the two sides – which pile to put this in? Let’s go with adoption. Another scoop comes out, same routine, we’ll plop this mess onto the addiction slop. Lack of trust – glop. Abandonment – drop that over here. Fear of loss – squish. On it goes.
My brain bits now oozing all over, the only thing I can be certain of is that I’m not sure it matters. My inner being, that little girl – she just needs to heal herself now as an adult. I’m uncertain if there is value in sorting through it all to define which traits come from where. My job is to become whole again despite the trauma.
When I was little, I took ballet and gymnastics classes at the St. Claire Dance Studio. We had a practice room with bars, and in one section was a glass windowed lounge with folding chairs where our parents could watch us. I’d be dancing around, springing into the air in my best Tour Jete, and like all the other little girls, hope my mother was watching. Mine never was. She always sat there with her book, reading, not seeing. No matter what I did or how well, she never took the time to take in the scene, make eye contact, or give me that smile. She sat. Her head bowed down.
She cared more about books than she did about me. She cared more about her coping mechanisms than about anyone else.
When growing up, it was as if I had two mommies. One was the happy-faced mommy with her mask fully in place. She acted normal, engaged, smiled, and was fun to be around. Mommy number two was raging, crying, screaming at I-didn’t-know-what mommy. Or she wouldn’t get out of bed. I never knew from day to day, or even morning to night, which one would be waiting for me. She managed herself with prescription drugs and alcohol. Daily, mom swigged uppers, downers, and everything in-betweeners, capped off with drinks in the evening. But of course, as a child, I knew none of this.
By fifth grade, I was in soccer, a mixed co-ed team of gangly youngsters, and both of my parents went to the games every Saturday. My father at the sidelines cheered us on with the other parents. But my mom sat in the camp chair she would bring and read her book. After, my friends and I would pile into the back seat with my parents up front, and as we eagerly recounted the game’s events, mom wouldn’t even know what had happened – if we’d won or lost. My friends noted her odd behavior and asked why she bothered to come. I couldn’t answer because, from my seat, I couldn’t understand why she had adopted me.
Her love was missing – it wasn’t where I needed it to be. As an adopted child, you worry you are not good enough, that someone did not want you. Love, logic, or will cannot overcome that constant companion. We need our adoptive parents aware of these truths so much more than most people understand.
The universe tries to deliver gifts of love to each of us. But you must grasp those precious gems when they arrive. If you miss them, that love will skip past you like flat stones across the surface of a hard, still, lake. They ripple and disturb the surface but cannot be held onto and absorbed. Instead, those gifts will run at you across the universe and streak past. But eventually, that stone runs out of energy and sinks to the bottom. Unused, it dissolves – dead weight taking up space.
I became like that hard, still, lake. Those were my coping mechanisms.
Since no love was directed toward me from my mother, I anchored myself to others. I made friends easily and busied myself with their lives, a better substitute for mine, I was certain. For my mother, I made no room for her at all. As a typically rebellious teen, I directed nothing toward her but my pain. I couldn’t trust her with anything else.
I’ve heard it said that there are two primary emotions – anger and sadness – those are the strongest. What was coming out of me was anger, but what was lurking underneath was sadness. Grief.
Grief that I felt so completely unloved and alone inside despite looking like I was busy, popular, and fitting in well at school. Resentment that no matter what I did, I never felt safe. Not that someone would hurt me, but I could not let my pain show anywhere, ever. That did not fit the narrative that we were a happy, perfect little family.
As adoptees, we are told on one hand that our noble, suffering birth mother loved us so much that she gave us up for someone else to raise. We are also simultaneously told that we are chosen, special, and wanted by our parents. So then love gives you away, and love also wants you but, in my case, rejects you. That is just one epic head-screw if there ever was one.
When I was fifteen, my mother lifted herself up and began her journey to being clean and sober. When I was young, I hated her for her weakness, but the truth is that she was strong. I learned that she had her own mean-spirited, narcissistic alcoholic mother from whom she needed to heal.
As an adult, I know my addict mom wasn’t rejecting me and that she loved me in her own way very much. She just didn’t feel that she had anything to give. I believe this is true had I been her natural child or her adopted one. A different source, same outcome.
Reconciling those truths is one of the most important journeys we, as adoptees, need to trek. Our parents are as flawed and as messed up as anyone else’s. Our society must understand that adoption does not make a perfect family. It creates a human one. There are complexities and nuances to this that coexist while remaining contradictory. Like a crazy, misunderstood flying circus swinging away inside our heads.
by JeanWidner | Jul 18, 2022 | Adoptee Stories, Birth Parent
My story is the age-old tale of black and white, my mother being white, my father black. It goes back to the story of an older man with a younger woman. She was a teenager, got pregnant, and had me. She tried to keep me for a while, but for whatever reason, she couldn’t.
I always had this dream from when I was little, but now know it was not a dream. In it, I could hear my mom’s voice. I knew it was my mom, that she was coming to pick me up. I could never actually see her face, but I could always hear the voice, which was always the same.
In one of my only memories of her, I am sitting on a bench, she walks out, I see her back, and I call to her, but she never responds or turns around. That was the last day I ever saw my mother.
From what they say, I was just older than a toddler, probably about four or five, when my mother gave me up. I have learned I was in close to eleven different foster homes before I was adopted.
I don’t have a lot of memories of my childhood and think that it was probably very traumatic, which is why I was moved around a lot. There are reports that in one foster home, one of the children there was touching me inappropriately. There was another foster care where the daughter was jealous because I was mixed and had what they called ‘good hair.’ I don’t know exactly what that is.
But they couldn’t control me – nobody could handle me. I probably had an attachment disorder. I didn’t want anybody to hold me or even be near me. I kept calling for my brother, and kept telling everybody that I had a brother. He went to live with his father. I couldn’t understand why my father didn’t come and get me? Why didn’t my father want me? Not knowing at that time, my brother was all white, not understanding that back in the ’70s and the ’80s, you were either black or white. It was not okay to be in the middle. I never really fit in with the white kids. I didn’t fit in with my black friends either. So even having friends growing up was very difficult.
I got in trouble because they would ask us if we were black or white when we were in school, and I refused to pick one. I’m black, white, Hispanic – I’m just not going to choose. I got in trouble for that. When you get in trouble, they want to call your mom or your dad. Well, if you don’t have a mom or a dad, who do they call?
It’s not just the in and out of the foster homes that get you – it’s the parents that come and go. Because there’s always turnover, it’s hard to give your life to raising children that are not your own, that have emotional problems. You go back and forth with the foster home and have parents coming in and out. It’s a revolving door. But the only thing that’s constant, that stays, is you. That took its toll.
Back then, teachers didn’t keep stuff like that private, so everybody knew. I was a handful – I didn’t like affection, yet craved attention. You could get just arm’s length close to me, but that was it. I didn’t want you to be any closer.
As a kid, you can only be told that you’re not wanted or given back so many times before that’s what you believe. So, I developed the “I have to be the best at everything,” syndrome. I must be great in school. I was a gymnast and played basketball and volleyball. I did everything possible to be that perfect child so that somebody would want me.
In the third grade they told me they wanted to be my parents. “Sure, you can be my parents,” but I had a few requests of my own. “I want wicker furniture, and I want to take gymnastics. If you want me, these are the few things that I need in return, and my room needs to be purple.”
Here I was, haggling at a very young age. But even when you get that sense, “Okay, I have a family,” you’re different. They are white. My hair is different, my skin is different. Their kids are mostly grown and out of the house. Both older sisters are in college or married.
My new brother, David Russell, amazing human that he is, reading Bell and Grindle for a bedtime story is probably not the best idea for a kid. Hence my love of the medieval. I didn’t like bridges for the longest time because I was always worried that The Billy Goats Gruff would get me. Because those were the bedtime stories that I had. He introduced me to Star Trek because “What well-rounded child doesn’t know anything about Star Trek? We can’t have that.”
Those are the things that I hold on to because the other things are not pretty, and nobody wants to talk about them. Nobody wants to talk about going to the grocery store with my mom and somebody at the register ringing something up, her paying for it, and then, they ring up my stuff and her paying for it separately. You couldn’t tell them, “We’re all together” or “That’s my daughter”? Or when somebody says, “Oh, you’re such a pretty child. What did your mother do to get you?” And I respond, “Nothing more than your mom did to get you.” But I’m the one who had to apologize because that wasn’t ladylike behavior.
At what point do you step up and say, “That’s my daughter. I am proud to have her as my daughter.” Because if my behavior is good and my grades are good, “Oh, that’s great. That’s a reflection because she’s a teacher, and she’s done so well.” or “Y’all were so great to take this child in.”
I so often heard, “Well, maybe you would have been better off with a black family adopting you.” But my parents adopted me because if they didn’t, who was going to? What kind of life was I going to have? None of the other children at the home had been in and out as many times as I had. Back then, you could place a black child, or you could place a white child. But where were you going to place a mixed child?
Mom and I went rounds when it came to doing my hair, running through the house, her trying to get a comb through it, then me getting to a certain age and her just saying I had to do it however. Well, I didn’t know how to do my hair – didn’t know what I needed to do to take care of it. Being made fun of in school, my dad started taking me to get it braided. In my high school years, Salt-N-Pepa was popular. I went to the beauty shop and wanted the Salt-N-Pepa haircut because I thought it looked good. That’s what black kids were supposed to have. But when your dad allows you to do that, you come home, your mom freaks out, and then you go to a private school that’s predominantly white, and you’ve got that haircut, you get in trouble because then it’s a distraction.
I got put into another school with more black children and didn’t have as hard of a time. But through it all, my parents didn’t go to school when there were problems. Once again, they didn’t stick up for me.
Ultimately, they moved from that side of Tulsa to Broken Arrow, to a more up-and-coming area, and for a while there, everything was okay.
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When I was nineteen, I was raped. People asked, “Well, what did she do?” Why did I have to do anything?
I remember my dad had told me if you get pregnant, we’ll just pluck it out like a grape. I didn’t believe in abortion, so I didn’t say anything until it was too late. My sister came to visit her older friend I was staying with, and she ran back home and told them I was pregnant. She doesn’t discuss it with me. She didn’t ask me about it beforehand. What do they do? Shipped me off to a home to have the baby at. Then they announce it in church – let everybody know what happened. I’m getting letters and phone calls, saying our prayers are with you, but my parents didn’t visit.
I was devastated by the whole thing that happened. They didn’t believe me until the same thing happened to somebody else, then it was okay. Then it was, “We need to get you counseling,” or “we’re so sorry this happened.” When it happened, I was asked over and over what did I do? Did I provoke the person? I was so damaged physically that I was told I probably would never be able to have kids again. So not only am I told that but to give up the one child I had.
Now I must make the same decision for my child that was made for me. Knowing how I felt and grew up, I chose an adoption that was open, or as much as one could be at that time.
I wanted to pick his parents because I wanted them to understand that the baby I’m giving you, you must love as your own, treat as your own – if you can’t do that, you can’t have him. The family I chose had two older children at the time, and they already had a mixed child. So, I knew that there wouldn’t be as many questions.
She [the adopting mother] showed me what it was to be a mother because she would call and check on me. She told me, “It doesn’t matter if you choose us or somebody else. Right now, you need a mom. You need to be loved.” She did that every day until I gave them my son. They allowed me to name him. Of course, they renamed him.
But they allowed me to name him so he would have a birth certificate from me, a letter that I wrote him, and a quilt that I made him. Shortly after that, I went into the military. They tried to keep up with my parents, but my parents didn’t even want to see him. There’s a picture of my mom holding him, but that’s the only one.
His mom was a wonderful woman. She always kept up with me to know where I was because of the deal that I made her that I wish somebody would’ve done for me – was that he was to know about me. But he was not allowed to meet me until he was eighteen because I wanted him to understand that that’s your mom and dad. I loved him more than myself – that is why I gave him to a family that could love him.
When he graduated high school, I got a message on Facebook, “Hey, this is Shaw. Is your name such and such? I’m your son.”
He said, “I am in Lubbock, and I would like you to see me graduate because I want you to know that everything you did was worth it and that I thank you for what you did.” So, my two younger boys and I went down there. They met their brother, Shaw, and we watched him graduate. His mom gave me the biggest hug – that whole family embraced me, thanked me for giving them Shaw.
I say that because that is how an adopted child is supposed to feel. Parents adopt us, and they don’t think about the thing that’s in us that is broken. That part of us needs to know we belong and are loved.
By all standards, looking from the outside, it appeared this was the perfect childhood – private schools, gymnastics, a car at the age of sixteen, parents that came to every game, and family dinners. But nobody ever once stopped to ask me did I feel loved? Did I feel wanted? Not once.
I don’t think it matters if you’re adopted as a baby or as an older child. That one feeling of why I was not good enough that my mom kept me resonates with almost all of us.
The day my parents took me to MEPS [Military Entrance Processing Station], that was it for me. I was done. I wasn’t going to college or staying with my parents, and refused to return to that house. I was not going to be a dirty little secret. I was going to be seen as a person, not the color of my skin or the situation for my being on this earth.
Twenty-eight years later, with my dad just passing, I would say that’s the one regret I have, that I didn’t get to tell him thank you for what he did. Whether his motivation was good and pure or whether it was out of what he felt was a Christian obligation, I owe him that thank you. I wouldn’t be the parent I am today without the structure I had.
I told my mom, and I hope that she relayed to my father, that I got the pick of the parents. I won the lotto when it came to my parents.
I have a lot of bad memories, but there are good ones. It’s not just a sad story of a kid that nobody wanted. I have the memory of having a beautiful white dress with ruffles and frills and a bow in the back, and my hair was picked out, and I was clean. Many people won’t understand what that feeling is. I had a bath and my hair done, and have a picture of that. Every time I see that picture, I can still remember just feeling clean.
People will never understand laying down in a bed for the first time, and you know it’s yours. Nobody else had it or is going to sleep in that bed. I don’t have to hide my toys because nobody will take them. I don’t have to eat all the food at once because I can go to the refrigerator, open the door, and there’s food. I was told I was a picky eater as a child. It wasn’t that. As a child, what I put in my mouth was the only thing I could control. I couldn’t control my living situation or whether I was accepted or not accepted. If you think about it, that was the only thing I could control.
by JeanWidner | Jul 13, 2022 | Adoptee Stories
My Mother Didn’t Want Me.
My Mother Couldn’t Keep Me.
Sit with those two sentences. Feel the differences implied by their words. In one, you are rejected and abandoned. Discarded. Given away, never to be thought of again.
The other gives a different view. Being unable to keep something means it wasn’t your choice. That you were an innocent in a set of circumstances that were beyond your mother’s control.
When adoptees, either children or adults, utter the first line above to describe their situation, “My mother didn’t want me,” I always silently cringe. Because the truth is that unless you have met your birth mother and heard her story, you cannot possibly know that. Maybe it is true. Maybe she never wanted children, never had them, and already knew at a young age she did not want ever to be a mom or parent a child. In that case, her relinquishment is not only a blessing, but it would have been a curse for you to be trapped with her.
What we want as human beings, and as women, changes during the course of our lives – this is true for all of us. Parenting is a challenge no matter what your level of maturity or financial stability. What your partner wants for their life, and the strength of that bond all influence the timing of when is the right time to become a parent. To want to be a mother. A young woman may not want to be a parent when she cannot support that child, but then want to mother later in life when her circumstances have changed.
But here’s the thing – that’s on her. It may not seem fair to an adoptee feeling the effects of that primal separation, but the point is that we don’t need to take in those words of ‘not being wanted’ and make them our identity.
This is not a judgment of birth mothers. Their circumstances and reasons for relinquishing their children are varied and complex. In my experience with the birth mothers I know, they are at least, if not more, fearful of the rejection of their adult adopted children as adoptees are of feeling the same from them.
Another hard truth with this is that no one should be forced to become a parent who does not wish to be. The job is too hard.
If you remember Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Eat, Pray Love, she leaves her husband because she realizes that even with their many years of marriage and plans to start a family – she does not want to be a parent. Famously in one chapter of her story, she discusses these doubts with her sister, who wisely says to her, that “having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it’s what you want before you commit.”
Elizabeth is not a devil for her admission. She is honest enough to recognize this should not be her path and harm another while she complies with those prior ideals and commitments. Because a parent who does not want to be one will most likely harm their child emotionally, at least in some way.
I identify with the author because I have also chosen not to become a mother. My husband of over thirty years feels the same. And while I have moments where the now-grown children of my friends make me wistful for a different path, for the overwhelming majority of the time, I’m happy with ours.
But sit with this again – why should any adopted child take on those feelings of rejection from their birth mother? Do we understand how backward that is? Especially so, if it isn’t even the truth.
When an adopted person says, their mother didn’t want them, at whatever their age they say it – they are taking on those emotions that their mother may, or may not, have about being a parent, and internalizing them as an indictment of their being born and placed for adoption.
Words matter and they have power. To my fellow adoptees, I say – keep your power. Own your words and choose them carefully – you deserve that.
