It never seemed quite right…
I felt like an outsider. The skin was dark, my anger was big, and a family fused together through adoption seemed mysterious and inaccurate to me.
They wanted something for me–my adoptive parents. They also wanted something from me. And they took it. They rounded out their family the way they wanted and paid the price not only for the adoption, but for a frustrated kid who knew trauma and brought discord. It could be painted as a glory story, but I found it to be unsettling and convinced throughout much of life that there was noplace on earth okay for me to be.
Adoption has beauty; it also has a hellish hurt. For multiple people and sides of the reality, it can hurt in the actualization or in the decades to come.
Is that okay to write?
Isn’t easier and more safe to watch the turmoil of adoption from theater seats, cry our tears from limited view, and smile with the hopeful spirit of Lion on the big screen around our nation?
I recommend the movie, truly.
I just also know it is easier to watch from the fifth row up than to be okay with someone in our own lives who is seemingly lost when she should feel found.
I have been recommended to read the A Long Way Home memoir the movie was based on a few times, but I always wonder why when I live with my own taunt and displacement.
Suicidal thoughts kept at bay for most of life.
Finding connections in certain seasons with family and friends allows me to believe I can attach to others.
Depression was chased by exercise at-large and medication a time or two.
Vows and covenants keep bonds that might otherwise be broken.
Jobs held, success had, lives touched, strengths found–and yet none of these fill the hollow or empty the overhwelm.
Life will always have a heaviness.
I have found peace in my faith journey and chaos in my existence.
It is a both/and. Always.
But I rise to face three little ones and hundreds of teens. In this, I own my grief just as I declare my hope.
I will find a way through the resurfacing of memories. I will manage the angst of not having white skin as a child and even now as an adult. I will breathe on despite those who have passed away before me.
And maybe, just maybe, home is growing from within instead of out there somewhere.
Fight for hope with me.
Acknowledge grief with me.
They are not enemies, they are people-shapers. They comprise our stories and make us who we are.
Hope and grief… welcome to February, we got some life to live.
Join me? Where ever you are, whatever your story… breathe again and live life.
gravis: Latin word for heavy, weighted, grief.
Semicolon replacement for the i: semicolons are used when a sentence could end, but the author chooses to continue the sentence. It has become the one of the symbols for breaking the stigma of mental illnesses. It allows people like myself to take a visible stance to claim life when suicide could have ended it.
(My previous wrist tattto is the Bangla word for hope. I have the same tattoo on my ankle. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I am marked by Hope.)