"Searching For Myself"

I recently posted this on Facebook, but wanted to put it here on my new blog page because not everyone was able to read it there (due to not having Facebook, etc). This was originally posted on my MySpace blog in March of 2008.

Some of you may already know this about me, while many probably do not. I am adopted and was very fortunate to have met my birth mom Carla and her family in 1993. Being adopted isn't something I've ever been ashamed of; in fact I'm very open about it and answer any questions people may have if/when they find out.

Recently, people have been asking me questions about my adoption: how it came to be, why I was given up for adoption, how I met my birth mom, etc. Instead of typing it all out, I decided to post a story I wrote for my high school art and literary magazine called "Visions" (which I was also on the staff of) in 1993.

At the time of the printing, Carla and I had not met face-to-face yet. So, at the end of the story, I will post a bit of an update.

Here is the story from "Visions":

"Searching For MySelf"

I was in 9th grade when I decided to search for my birth mom. I remember it was a beautiful spring day in 1990. Although my mom was supportive of searching for my birth mom, we didn't know how cooperative my dad would be. We decided to deal with him after we found out what they had to say at Faribault Rice County Social Services.

My mom picked me up from school that day, and we headed for Social Services. We drove in silence the entire way, but I'm sure we were both thinking the same thing: What is going to happen? I was eager to find out.

When we finally got there, which seemed like an eternity, we nervously walked into the large, red brick building.

"Can we speak to someone in charge of adoption, please?" I asked the receptionist behind the counter. "That would be Phyllis Freeman. Is she expecting you?" I explained to her that my mother and I decided to do this at the last minute and that we had come straight from school. After the receptionist checked to make sure Phyllis was in, she told us to wait a few minutes. Those few minutes turned out to be closer to a half hour. We finally met Phyllis, and I thought she was a very nice woman; I could tell she was very caring and would help me.

After our introductions to each other, we walked into her office which was painted in soft pastel colors. She had an adorable painting of a newborn baby on the wall. After I explained to her that I was in search of my birth mom, she asked my age. I knew that I was underage; I was only 15 and the legal age is 18. She explained to me that since I was only 15, I would need written permission from both of my parents. Again, I began to worry about my dad.

After Phyllis answered some of my questions and we discussed the information I already knew from my biological fact sheet given to my parents from the adoption social worker in 1975, Phyllis explained the lengthy procedure adoption searches have to go through. It could take from three months to three years. And my birth mom might not want to have contact with me at all or may not even be alive; but I knew deep down inside she was alive and would not reject me.

At 5:30 p.m. that night, my dad came home from work. Both my mom and I were nervous about talking to him and getting his permission for my search. I knew this would be hard for him since I am "daddy's little girl," and the only child. We asked him to come downstairs with us where he sat in his favorite recliner. "Jim," my mom began, "Tamara and I went over to Social Services today after school."

My dad asked why we went over to Social Services, showing no interest. I looked nervously into his eyes but immediately looked down when I began to speak.

"I want to find my birth mom," I said quietly. "We went to Social Services to see if they can help me find her." I looked at my dad quickly and noticed he was staring blankly down at my feet.

The silence was unbearable. I was sure my parents could hear my heart pounding against my chest. My mom and I shifted in our seats as we waited for his response. He spoke in a shaky voice that I had only heard once before, and that was when he told me my grandpa had died. "Why do you want to find her? Is there a reason?" he asked.

Is there a reason?! I began to get angry with him as I spoke. "Yes, there's a reason! I want to find her. I want my questions answered. I need to do this, don't you understand?" Couldn't he see how important this was for me? This was my life we were talking about. My roots.

"No, I don't understand. Don't you love us anymore? You're not happy with us, and you're not happy living here, and you want to go live with her, is that it?" "No, Dad! I love you and Mom." By this time I was crying. "I just want to learn about myself. I have to do this." I looked at my did and saw a tear on his cheek. I went over and hugged him. "I love you, Dad. Please support me on this."

Finally, my dad cleared his throat. "Well, if this is what you want to do, I guess there' s nothing I can say about it. It looks like you've got your mind made up. What do I have to do?" My mom had the form there for him to sign. As he put his signature on the paper, I began to get very excited. I knew because of their signatures my life would change forever.

Three weeks later, I went out to the mailbox to get the mail like I usually did. After I opened the mailbox, I found a business-sized envelope addressed to me. My eyes immediately shifted to the return address on the envelope, and my heart started pounding against my chest. I stared at the return address and read it over and over in my mind. It was from Social Services. I walked slowly into the house and sat down at the kitchen table. I was in a daze. This was it, the information about my birth mom. My head began to spin, and my pulse raced as I nervously ripped open the envelope. I quickly read the memo written by Phyllis: "Dear Tamara, here is the letter and pictures of your birth mom. If you have any questions, you can contact me at..."

I couldn't believe it! My birth mom was alive and wrote to me! The first thing I did was take the pictures out and place them face down on the table; I wanted to save the best for last. My hands were cold and clammy and began to shake uncontrollably as I opened the letter. I began to cry as I read the opening, "My dear daughter...". It was strange reading the word "daughter." I began to realize how lucky I was. Most people have one mother to love and care for them; I have two.

As I read the letter, I began to see what a loving, caring woman she was and that she went through so much at a young age. After she gave birth to me, just two weeks before her 14th birthday (yes, she was 13 when she had me), she went to court several times to try and get full custody of me, but that didn' t work out because both the courts and her parents were completely against her keeping me. After that rejection, her life went to hell. A year after I was born she quit school, broke up with my birth father who was 19 at the time and moved away from home. Although she went through a lot of hard times, she kept telling me throughout the letter that she loved me very much and never regretted having me. One thing that surprised me as I read the letter was information about two half sisters and a half brother. I laughed as I read that because I'm an only child and never thought I'd have siblings; but always wanted them. The letter was signed, "With love and very special thoughts, Carla." Her name is Carla! As I carefully folded the letter wink dabbing my eyes with tissue, I glanced at the pictures lying face down on the table. I slowly turned over the Polaroid photographs, and then I stared at them in disbelief and began to cry all over again. She looked exactly like me! It was almost like looking in a mirror.

Carla and I have been writing to each other ever since. I've gotten more pictures of her and also of her parents, sisters, and my three half siblings. Our relationship is not the mother-daughter type really. Whenever I write to her, it's like sending a letter to friend—a pen-pal. Although we haven't met yet, we are in the process of scheduling a date through our social workers. I want her to come to my graduation, and both my social worker and parents think that would be very special for Carla.

When I think about meeting her, I'm excited, nervous and scared all rolled into one. I spent most of my first 15 years wondering about unanswered questions, and it took three weeks to get the answers. Not only was I searching for my birth mom, but I was also searching for myself. I know now that search hasn't ended; it is just beginning.

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Now for the update:

Carla and I finally did meet on Nov. 12th, 1993 at Rice County Services - the same building that found her for me. My parents were there, along with her mother Jan and our social workers. My parents got along with Carla and her family very well; especially my mom. Carla and I spent a lot of time together getting to know each other, spent weekends together, etc. It was a very special time and one I will never take for granted.

This is the part I normally don't share with people (only a very select few), but I feel strong enough where I can now...

As you may (or may not) have noticed, my last paragraph was written in past tense. The reason for that is because Carla and I are no longer in contact. 3 1/2 years ago, Carla wrote me a letter saying she no longer wanted me in her life. She told me that we are two different people and that her life was going really well at the time, etc. Even though she still loves me and always will, she just couldn't handle our relationship anymore and decided it would be for the best if we no longer have communication and "move on". Her letter came as a complete and utter shock to me, just one week after my 30th birthday and one week before hers. I had no idea she felt this way. It had been a while since we had seen each other or spoken to each other, but I always just assumed that was because of the distance and our schedules. I didn't realize this was going on in her mind. Needless to say, I didn't even know how to feel after reading that; and by that I mean, I was a ball of every single emotion of you can possibly imagine: saddness, anger, shock... everything. It took her 14 years to figure out we're "two different people". After letting what I just read sink in, I started calling Carla's sisters (Sheila and Debi) and my brother (James - we call him Jamie) and sisters (Jessie and Jenny). All of them were as shocked as I was. None of them knew she had any intention of leaving me like this.

Immediately all of them were very concerned that I thought she was speaking on behalf of the entire family; and I knew she wasn't. I knew she was only talking about herself and being selfish. My Aunt Debi was afraid I felt like I was being "rejected" all over again; and I didn't. I never felt rejected from her at any point, because I always understood the circumstances as to why I was given up for adoption.

I sent Carla a Christmas card that year; my last. Inside it, I included a short letter acknowledging her letter to me. I took that moment to tell her exactly what I felt; the hurt, anger, shock... everything. I wanted her to know how much it affected me. I also told her that, if she would ever decide to come back into my life, I will always welcome her with open arms - although, it will take time for me to let my guard down with her. She deserved to know and I was not about to let her have the last word. I wanted to show her I will be ok, even though it will take some time.

Even though Carla and I are no longer in communcation, I still have a very good relationship with her sisters (Debi and Sheila), my siblings (Jessica, Jenny and Jamie) and some of my cousins (Jeremy and Denise) from her side of the family - especially Denise in particular (we all lost touch for a while - my siblings and cousins, but are back in communication and building relationships again); and for that I am very thankful. Sometimes things don't always work out the way you think they will. I never imagined my relationship with Carla would end this way and I'm still dealing with it. But I know that everything happens for a reason and I will always love Carla and I will never hold hard feelings against her decision - no matter how much I disagree with it, no matter how hurt I may be at times and don't understand it; I will always respect it.

I realize I'm sharing a lot and really putting myself out there; but writing and sharing has always been very theraputic for me and although my way of healing may be different from another's, it's mine and it works for me. That said, that doesn't mean it was an easy decision. However, I am happy to have written this blog and sharing this big part of me. If it helps people understand me more, then that makes it all worth it.