Letter to Birth Mother Part 2

This is a work in progress. As it sits right now, I hate it, but I'm working on it.

I'm having a hell of a time figuring out the format of my past. How does one tell a history? There's always the standard "begin at the beginning" but when I think of that, I always jump forward. History has a way of folding over on itself. Do I just tell it chronologically or itemize it? This is where word processing becomes a blessing.

Some headings for my own reference (they won't be in the final letter):

the call and the calendar

-to be added soon-

The first meeting

When my adoptive parents saw me for the first time, I was laying in a bed and crying. When my adoptive father picked me up, I stopped. He was immediately sold.

There's kind of a three-month gap that we don't know anything about where I was or who I was with after St. Agnes. My adoptive mother wasn't allowe

d to talk to my foster mother. So my adoptive parents assumed a thing or two... Either that or someone at St. Agnes told them a thing or two. I'm not sure which. The first thing they either assumed or were told was that my foster mother carried me around in a little pouch all the time. Hence the reason I stopped crying when my adoptive father picked me up.

I hope you don't mind if I just call them "mom" and "dad." It's a little easier to write... and a little more realistic... from my perspective, anyway..

This is one of the earliest pictures of me. This is me and my mom's dad. Grampa. If I remember this story right, he wasn't all that interested in my parents adopting me. That is, until he met me. He taught me not to interrupt. He was good at being assertive. And before he died, he told me what a wonderful person he thought I was. I miss the hell out of him.

Stacy

Another thing my mom learned by accident is that I was named Stacy, although none of us were sure who named me that (if it was you or the foster family). We found out when mom took me to the doctor's office. The nurses recognized me and called me Stacy. This threw my mom for a loop. And the nurses, too, when they found out my name had changed.

The birthmark

My grandmother, Grammy (her real name is Lucille, never Lucy), thought my parents should get my birthmark removed. That way no one from my past could come and claim me and take me back. It's still there. When I was a kid, it really bothered me. Before dance recitals, I used to make my mom put makeup over it. But now I don't even notice it. Gram was a bit nervous about stuff like that, but I can't fault her. She was wonderful, too. Kind, graceful, and sassy... at least she was after the stroke. My grandfather couldn't hear well, and after she had her stroke, all the little snide remarks she reserved for him in her mind began making small appearances under her breath. I don't think he ever knew. (NOTE TO SELF: ADD A PIC HERE)

Funny Feet

I guess my feet were turned in. I don't really remember... My mom would stretch them out and then I swear I remember these funny shoes they made me wear, even in bed. The doctor said it

would be good if I went to dance lessons, so they started me in ballet and tap when I was 3. I kept going with it until I was 11. It was good. I really wish I hadn't quit, but I can't fault myself for doing so; things were changing, if you know what I mean, and some of the things my teacher was asking me to do kinda creeped me out.

I don't know if I was good at it or not.

And I have no idea what I'm trying to do with my hands there. Or my feet for that matter, that's hardly first position.

Out of all the sports and activities I tried, well, let's just say that little league baseball and 8th grade basketball were fails, to say the very least. High school soccer.. that went pretty well. In college, I thought I was awesome playing pickup games.. I was keeping up with the guys, even some on WMU's team, and embarrassing the hell out of any girl who attempted to play with us. I don't play soccer much anymore, but I love to mountain bike, and I'm not all that bad at that... But I'm getting ahead of myself.

first attempt: A letter to my Birth Mother.

So I sent in the paper work to find my birth mother. I guess the judge only approved finding my mother, but my intermediary (the person doing the search) says once you find your mother, you can usually find your father. I thought for kicks I'd start drafting my letter here. Of course omitting whatever is not pro-internet-safety. :P

So here goes..

Dear ____,

I never, for one second, thought that you were a bad person. I still don't and I never will. Choosing to give me up was gutsy, brave, and I'm sure it hurt like hell. For all the above, you, and my father, too, have nothing but my utmost respect and admiration. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to try and find you; I'll hope you forgive me.

For what it's worth, I'll try to catch you up. Hopefully, I'll also show you that I went to a good home. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I actually did.

(Wow, does this sound stiff, or what?!)

I've always thought it was kind of amusing that when people find out I'm adopted, they seem to think it's some sort of dramatic thing, that I'm so unfortunate. I mean you no offense when I tell you that for me, being adopted is no different than having brown hair or brown eyes. It's just another fact. (My adoptive mother was always telling me I was adopted before I even understood her words, much less the concept.) The only difference that I can tell is that I've traded all the creepy birth stories for creepy adoption stories. And a bunch of people, somewhere out there, sacrificed a lot for my happiness and really blessed my adoptive parents... at least until I became a teenager. (Insert sinister laugh here.)

You know, this whole shroud-of-secrecy thing surrounding adoptions displaces copious amounts of air, if you ask me. Kids are missing part of their history and birthparents are missing out on lives they'll never forget. It's unnecessary and cruel and I'll never understand it. But then, I'm of a different generation.

...to be continued...

It's too damn early for this.

Can't sleep. Partially because the dog woke me up, partially because I had a dream about an age old high school insult. Whatever. I want it out of my head.

NPR is doing this project where they're collecting scans of diaries. And I figure since I've been keeping a diary since the 10th grade, I'll bet there's something in there that might be worthy.

Not that my diary is or was all that profound. I'd like to think there were some glimmers of hope in there for me both as a thinker and as a writer, but for the most part, they're the stunted ramblings of a delusional boy-crazy introvert. And I say delusional because I honestly believe I thought I was an extrovert and/or didn't think school caused me any anxiety. These days, I like to think of middle and high school as one long panic attack.

A couple years ago I tried to transcribe my diaries into one long word document, but I didn't get past the first few pages of the first diary. It wasn't because I lost interest. Well, in a matter of speaking, I did. But it stemmed from being so disgusted with how naive I was that I couldn't keep working on it. And the spelling and grammar issues. Holy Lord.

Truth is, I find enough fault with myself. I didn't want or need to review a million reasons why I was a social leper during the latter half of my K-12 public education career and the stupid situations I dealt with in college. For f*ck's sake, I can't stand hanging out with snot-nosed know-it-all undergrad students NOW. Why relive that supposed awesomeness?

But for some reason, I still have them. All. Every diary, from the first one written in a Mead spiral bound notebook (light yellow, 3 subject, wide ruled with the dividers torn out and a little unicorn on the corner of the cover), the later ones I abandoned either because I already had the next book and I was too excited to finish the old one or because something stupid happened and I wanted to dump the old one so I could get on with my life. Then there's the one I'm working on now that hasn't been written in in months. (Westley and I were musing on that; we talk to each other, or write it in a blog, or write it out on facebook if it's not that important, and purge our demons that way.) All of them but the last reside in a nondescript box in an undisclosed location in plain sight. I'm brilliant like that.

I always thought I'd keep them because some poor soul, some day, might want to read them. Not until I'm dead, of course. I've already suffered the consequences of letting friends and idiots read one while I've been alive. I learned this (repeatedly):

NOTHING GOOD EVER COMES FROM LETTING SOMEONE READ YOUR DIARY.

Yeah, I'm seriously starting to question my intelligence, too. But remember: One Long Panic Attack. Just keep it in the back of your mind.

Did you know I wrote some of my diary in Runic so people couldn't read it? I got paranoid.

But I'll let them read it after I'm dead. I figure that way, I'll be too occupied to give a crap about how stupid/broken/panicked/retarded they'll inevitably think I am.

Not that I should have to wait until I'm dead to not give a crap about what people think or say. But that's not a topic for here. That's for my diary.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Sometime, maybe Sunday when I have time, I'm going to go through that crappy old box and dig up some visually interesting fodder. I'll scan those b*tches, and upload them both here and to that project. And no, there won't be anything that can come back to bite me. I have Photoshop and I'm not afraid to use it. To blur out names and stuff.

Ooo. I'm tired again.

Just in time for the sun to come up.

And for oatmeal to sound appetizing.

Yeah.