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Welcome to Blogville, a place for tea and reading!
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Hello Blogville friends! Welcome back, it is so nice to see you. This morning I am drinking a turmeric chai tea as I write to you. As an adopted person I feel it is important to open up a dialogue about adoption topics (and sometimes other topics too) that impact on so many of us. You may not realize it but many of us struggle and feel so alone. I see you, WE matter!
*Note to my birth half-siblings- or other adult children of birth parents who placed- you may want to stop reading here. As their kept children, your experience with our birth parents was very different. When you came along our birth parents were ready to parent. My experience, that this blog is about to address, is one only other adopted people can likely relate to. In fact, I sent the blog draft to a friend, who is also an adult adopted person, for their thoughts, and this was their response, “Thank you for putting words to something I’ve been trying to make sense of. It landed.” So, here goes: As you may or may not be aware, there is a lot of discussion in the world of adoption (especially among adopted people) about trauma. I want to say I am no expert on trauma except for my lived experience and from listening to others who have travelled an adoption journey. Therefore, I am confident in informing, or warning, you that what I am about to share is rooted in my own personal abandonment trauma. So, please feel free to read on, or to exit without reading, I don’t judge. The other day I was scrolling through facebook, you know, checking out the posts of my former colleagues and my friends, like you, just to see what they are up to. I was suddenly engulfed by a strong, but very familiar feeling; loss. I have talked with you before about how easily I feel rejected and, dare I say, especially feeling neglected in relationships. I honestly think many of my feelings of rejection circle back to having been adopted. Well, that’s not exactly right, it relates back to having been freed for adoption. The infant in me says, ‘You were not valued. You were not worth keeping. You were a problem that needed to be disposed of.’ The adult in me acknowledges these thoughts and feelings while constantly trying to rephrase those negative thoughts. ‘You may not have been valued by your birth parents, but you were highly valued by your adoptive parents.’ ‘Even though you were not worth keeping by your birth family, you turned out to be worthwhile to your adoptive family.’ Unfortunately, I cannot find the words to rephrase the ongoing thought that I was a problem that needed to be disposed of. I cannot fully comprehend that I literally was never meant to exist. I think that is why I have lived most of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s exhausting. So, when I’m checking facebook posts and see how much fun my friends are having without me, I am afraid. My birth parents went on to happily live their lives without me too. What would make me think that my friends will want to spend time with me? What makes me think I’m worth it? My birth parents met new partners, married, and had ‘real’ children. Children they could acknowledge, love, make memories with, care for and about. Children that did not need to be disposed of. Life goes on, ‘they’ say. Well, life without me went on for my birth parents and the families they eventually created. I was not a part of their happily ever after. So, the child in me whispers in my ear to remind me of my ‘place’. Unwanted. Wow that makes it hard to reach out to friends whom I just know are having fun without me. In my mind, they, like my birth parents, do not need me for their happily ever after. They are probably spending time with their ‘real’ friends instead. The funny thing is that I never see it coming, and it seems to take forever for me to realize how I’m truly feeling. Others might get upset when friends don’t reach out to them, or when their friends don’t try to include them in their plans. Others might get upset when they feel they always have to do the reaching out. Me? I realize that if I don’t reach out, I will simply be forgotten, their alliances changed, leaving me behind. A part of me realizes that I should simply expect to be left behind, just like I was following my birth. So, I am often afraid to reach out. It is kind of like taking liquid medication, it tastes awful but it is the right thing to do. How many times do you bring the spoonful of medicine up to your mouth before you actually find the courage to swallow it? That’s how many times I draft an email, or a comment for their FB post, or draft a text without ever actually following through. The risks in reaching out first are high, what if I’m actually and truly not worth knowing, then my reaching out will make it awkward for them. I already suspect that I am no longer worth knowing, I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, to find out that they have found and replaced me with ‘real’ friends. The weird thing is that I know all of this might not be true. I know that my friends and I share a history that we all cherish. We share so many memories that make us smile when we reminisce. Together as friends, we have travelled the ups and downs of being single, being broke, being ok financially, being married, being childless, raising children, rolling our eyes at our parents and then crying those same eyes out when we lost them. I am grateful for their friendship, and for every moment with them, but still I want more. The question is, am I deserving? At the same time, I know I should be grateful for everything we shared and maybe I’m being selfish wanting to stay friends, or for wanting more. Maybe we have simply lost our commonality, or maybe it really is something I said, or did, and not simply their realization that I was never actually meant to be born? Only they know for sure. Maybe, one day, they will share this with me. Too afraid to ask, I simply wait for the other shoe to drop. Thank you so much for visiting with me today. I so enjoy your company and I hope you find some benefit in reading my blogs. As always, feel free to comment here or send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Also note that you can follow me on Goodreads and be the first to get new blog post notifications. See you next time.
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Hello Blogville friends! Welcome back, it is so nice to see you. This morning I am drinking a chamomile tea as I write to you. As an adopted person I feel it is important to open up a dialogue about adoption topics (and sometimes other topics too) that impact on so many of us.
So about a week ago one of my cousins messaged me on Facebook and said, “I’m going through some of my Mom’s pictures, I have quite a few of your parents, many were taken when Mom visited with them. Would you like the pictures?” Yes, I’d love to have them. They arrived today, my heart thudded as I saw a package poking out of my mailbox. The mail carrier had popped it in there having no idea that it contained such history. The history of one little family. The history of a happy, hopeful couple meeting, falling in love, marrying and planning their family. I messaged my cousin, thanking her for the kind gesture of gathering and sending the photos. I also told her I was about to open the package and sob my face off. She noted that she can relate as she has done her share of sobbing while going through her mother’s “treasures”. The mail carrier was not aware that the package held the story of young newlyweds. Later, the happy photos disguising reality as their hope and joy turned to grief with each new miscarriage. Each loss harder than the last. One would think their despair might have made the package even heavier. Those young people never lost the wish to become parents that led them to an adoption journey. The love in this package reduced it’s weight! Carefully I snipped and pulled my way through the massive amount of protective tape my cousin had bound the package with. Clearly she wanted the photos to make the journey between her home and mine safely. It worked! I caught my breath as out slid a wonderfully preserved photo of mom and dad when they got engaged. Their eyes were filled with excitement and the promise of a lifetime together. They celebrated over 50 years of marriage until death, indeed, parted them. There is also a picture of my dad with his only brother. In the photo my uncle is in his army uniform and dad stands uncomfortably beside him in a suit. My dad never got over not being able to serve his country. He carried his rejection papers (bad eyesight and flat feet) tucked away in his wallet until he passed away. Always prepared to show that he wanted, and tried, to serve but was refused. One photo of my dad posing with his thriving vegetable garden sent me reeling. I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and back as we weeded together. I remember my fingers cramping from picking off potato bugs! My dad would proudly show me tiny shoots of green that would later yield edibles like peas or tomatoes. Nothing tasted better than vegetables from his garden. My dad gardened well into his 70s. Photos of my brother and I as little ones, then as teens, and finally as adults transported me back to a time when I could feel their love for us, like a warm blanket. My parents dreamed of raising children and when nature betrayed them, undaunted, they chose a different route. Being adopted never changed the fact that these were my parents. Parenting isn’t all about giving life, it’s about giving a life! As I look through photo after photo I am repeatedly reminded of their strong sense of family. Landmark anniversary photos are filled with dozens of guests, mostly family members from near and far, coming together in celebration of their love and commitment to each other. More and more photos transporting me back in time. Tucked around the tissue box and spread out on my chair is evidence that true love does exist. Photos of friends and relatives living life with all of its hopes, celebrations, disappointments, gatherings, vacations, and faces that say more than ‘cheese’ surrounding me. It all feels like just a flash, this ‘slide show’ of my life. Though I am transported back in time, I am also seeing into the future. I see a time when my grandchildren will one day look back at our old photos (though likely digitally enhanced or gathered on their cell phones) and they too will feel the infinite love of family! Thank you my dear cousin, for sending me this love-filled parcel. This has been a heartfelt walk through memory lane, knowing how much I was loved. Thank you so much for visiting with me today. I so enjoy your company and I hope you enjoy my stories. As always, feel free to comment here or send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Remember, you can follow me on Goodreads and be the first to get new blog post notifications. See you next time. Welcome back my Blogville friends, it’s great to ‘see’ you. I thought you might enjoy reading about a little adventure my husband and I had. I think my honey lemon tea will be appropriate as I share this tale with you.
My husband and I used to bbq all the time. Well, to be fair, I prepped and he bbq’d. As I think about it, we happily bbq’d for about 10 years on our $79.98 WalMart bbq until one day it refused to offer up even one more burger. So for about 5 years or so, when spring crept up on summer we’d look at each other and say. Hey! We need to go get a new bbq. We’d look at the flyers, waiting for a big bbq bonanza sale. Then, as June approached, we’d wait for Father’s Day in case the kids needed a gift idea. Before we knew it Father’s Day had come and gone and all the bbq special sales flyers lay in the bottom of our recycle bin. This year I said to hell with it and we went shopping for a new bbq. So we looked, we measured which ones would fit in the garage, we debated ‘btu’s and surface sizes and the ease of cleaning the different surfaces that are now available in bbqs. Sheeeesh! Finally, we made our choice. Then we looked for one in an undamaged box, finally finding one behind a couple of punched in boxes. With no helpful employees in sight, my husband (in his 60s) struggled to lift and fit the oversized box into an undersized cart while I both watched with amusement and looked away in fear. Off to the self checkout we rolled. I’ll spare you the details and simply note that he struggled the heavy, oversized box into and out of our car before finally tucking the boxed, unassembled, bbq away in our garage. Assembly planned for another day. So when our children asked what to get their dad for Father’s Day I suggested a new, full propane tank. So on Father’s Day he received a full propane tank and a fancy set of bbq tools. As he was presented with these gifts I could read his mind, “Sigh, I guess I have to put the bbq together now.” We enjoyed a bbq at one of our daughter’s homes for Father’s Day. Motivated, my husband opened the bbq box that evening when we got home and said with relief, “hey, it’s mostly assembled, I just have to put the legs on.” Then, for several days he had not made any efforts to put the legs together. So, as a motivator for him to get out to the garage and get the legs together I invited the kids and grandkids for a Sunday bbq! So on Saturday we went out for supper, picked up Tim’s and headed to the garage to put the legs on the bbq and set up the propane tank. Suffice to say, it is 10:00 pm, his coffee and my tea have long gone cold, and 1,000 mosquitoes are full of our blood. We just called it quits with the four legs assembled but abandoning the bbq lying handle-less, wheel-less and grill-free on the floor of the garage with no attempt to even begin the propane assembly. The clock strikes 10:00 pm, (yes we have a clock that actually strikes the hour), the burger patties are tucked away in the freezer, wieners in the fridge, the buns on the counter, while a half-way assembled bbq lies quietly in the garage. I’m sure our 11 guests who are bringing salads tomorrow will understand if we end up ordering pizza! Wish us luck! Thanks for reading, I hope my words made you smile! Have a great day. P.S. Your comments are always welcome! |
Lynn DeiulisLynn Deiulis' personal and professional journey sparked a passion to write a book that offers an opportunity for children to learn about how they came to be living together as a family or living with another family. Read More
October 2025
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