Twenty Things My Adopted Kids Wish Their Biological Family Knew

If you’re an adoptive parent and you haven’t yet read Sherrie Eldridge’s book, “Twenty Things Adopted Kids Wish Their Adoptive Parents Knew,” you’re missing some good insight.  The book will not reveal all the things adopted kids wish their parents knew.  Some adopted kids (now adults) disagree with some of what Eldridge writes.  However, the book will give you some knowledge of what it feels like to be adopted, and some seeds for thought as you try to understand the heart of your child.  I highly recommend you read it.  (I get no financial gain by saying that.)

There is a flip side to the 20 things adoptive parents should know, at least for my kids.  My kids experienced significant trauma at the hands of their birth family and the people that family allowed to become a part of their lives.  Because those adults didn’t handle things well, they ended up in an orphanage system that was often harmful and hurtful.  The things my kids have told me about their caregivers are about the only thing that makes me want to go back to their birth country.  I would very much like to give certain women there an education they’d never forget.

The thing is, my kids don’t care about those people very much.  They were temporary “mamas.”  They were hired help.  They weren’t family.  It is family that caused the deepest pain and left the biggest scars.  It is to family my kids wish they could communicate the things they want to be ingrained into the soul of people living in Eastern Europe.  Here are 20 things my kids wish their biological family knew:

*You caused me more hurt and pain than any child should ever have to bear.  You are ALL responsible.  Those letters you send me now only cause that pain to deepen.  If you loved me so much, why didn't you take care of us when our parents could not?

*I am ashamed of you and I am scared to death I’m going to end up like you, even though I have a good life and parents who know how to love me now.

*Even though you’ve caused me so much pain, I still love you and I still wish we could be together.  I grieve that loss deeply every single day.

*Sometimes I grieve losing you so much, I take it out on my Mom and Dad.  I wonder if that would make you happy?  When my anger is over, it makes me ashamed that I treated them that way.  It’s you I’m mad at!

*I don’t talk about you that often, but when I do, it’s hard for me and for my parents.  They don’t like seeing me upset, so I hide that I’m thinking about you.  I think about you every day.  My parents know that and even though it hurts us both, they still try to show me it’s okay to remember you and talk about you.

*Even though I think about you, I don’t want to talk about you most of the time.  Sometimes, it feels like my parents and my therapist are prying stuff out of me and that makes me even more mad at you, but then I grieve for you right after I get mad.

*I am really mad that I wasn’t worth enough to you for you to register my birth.  (The Princess)  I am really mad that everyone relied on me to remember when my sister was born.  (Youngest Son)

*Even though my parents tell me you were not allowed to see me anymore when I went to the orphanage, I wonder if you didn’t come to see me because you didn’t love me anymore.

*I worry all the time that my new Dad will die, or that my Mom will be with other men.  I freak out whenever my mom goes away on a trip.  I hate it that my Mom and Dad are planning an anniversary trip this year and I am not going with them.  I’m scared they won’t come back.

*I put up a good front in public.  I’m a good Eastern European and the only emotion I show is when I want to let someone know they’re bothering me.  Most of the time, people outside my family don’t know I’m any different than any other American kid – unless they hear my accent.

*You gave me no sense of control, so now I fight to have a sense of control.  It’s hard for me to let my parents care about me and it’s hard to care about other people.  I do care.  A lot.  But it’s very hard.

*I like it when people say I look like my Mom and Dad.  I like it when people say I sound just like my Mom or that I’m as smart as my Dad.  That’s okay.  I don’t like it when you write my parents’ names in letters to me.  They are my Mom and my Dad.  Call them that.  However, I also like it when people in my family tell me I’m as handsome as my Papa or as smart as my Babushka.

*I love my parents.  They drive me crazy sometimes.  I drive them crazy sometimes.  But so do my brothers.  My mom says all teenagers drive their parents nuts and all parents embarrass their teens.  We’re a normal family that way.  I love my parents and I still love you, though I don’t understand that.

*I don’t like telling people about you.

*My parents make my birthday special, but I always feel bad on my birthday, on other people’s birthdays, on holidays, vacations, or any celebration.  You did that to me.

*I hate it that I don’t know my medical history or the truth about my first family’s medical challenges.

*Even though I know I’m forever home with my real family now, I get really scared that I’ll get sent back to you.  I have nightmares about it.

*When I make poor choices, I wonder if I’ll make the really poor choices you made when I’m an adult.  My parents reassure me that I can choose to have a good life, but I’m still scared I’ll be just like you.

*I need extra help because of the things that happened when I was little.  I blame you, but I forgive you.  I do this over and over again.  Sometimes I do it multiple times per day.

*Even if I decide to search for some of you someday, you are not my real family.  My home is here.  I don’t come from here.  I come from you, and so they cannot replace that.  My beginning is with you.  But remember my real home is with them. 

I imagine some of these 20 things will strike a nerve or two with some of my readers.  I ask you to consider the raw, traumatized, developmentally delayed, teenage emotion and thought behind these 20 things.  They are from the perspective of my two particular teenage children who suffered a very traumatic background, and who are home only 4.5 years.  These are raw emotions, but they are honest emotions.  This is what being real is all about.

Letting Sleeping Teenagers Lie

My two youngest are home from school today.  It’s Martin Luther King Day.  Our school district gives the kids the day off and makes the staff work.  (Yeah, I don’t get that, either.)  Anyway, Youngest Son and Princess are still in bed.  It’s 10:15 as I type this sentence.  They probably should be up, or at least moving.  However, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.  He’s not barking orders at her.  She’s not bouncing off the walls.  I may have to pay for this quiet later, but for now, I like it.  I like it a lot.

There’s been a lot of trauma-related stuff going on with my kids the last few months.  The holidays are always hard, as I’ve written before.  It starts with Halloween (literally the holiday from hell around here) and builds to a crescendo in January – the anniversary month for a major traumatic event in my kids’ lives.  Every year, the reactions in each kid have been a bit different.  This year, their 5^th January home, their reactions seem more introspective, even if they are still sometimes acting out. 

For example, we live near the campus of a former American orphanage.  It is now a children’s home for foster kids who are hard to place into private foster homes.  It’s a beautiful campus.  There aren’t a lot of kids there anymore, but there are still some.  They are kids with significant behavioral challenges.  My kids call it “The Bad Boys Home.”  (I cannot get them to stop calling it that.  I’ve given up trying.  Girls live there, too, by the way.)  Anyway, my daughter and I drove by the campus on the way home from school the other day and she asked, “Why is ‘The Bad Boys Home’ so nice?”  I had to think for a moment what it was she was really asking.  After I paused, I answered her question with another question.  “Princess, are you thinking about your orphanage and about [birth country]?” 

BINGO!  Survivor’s guilt.  Things were nicer in America.  “Why is it so much nicer?”  Even in America, the orphanages were better maintained.  “Why are these buildings so nice when my orphanage was in such disrepair?”

What answers can you give a child who wonders at our middle-middle class American abundance?  How do you handle the irony, when just that morning, she was complaining about how we didn’t have the resources to do things or have some of the possessions some of her friends have?  Frankly, I didn’t answer her questions.  (On one level, I didn’t want to go there.  On another, I knew it wasn’t about what she seemed to be asking.)  I asked more questions instead.

“Princess, are you thinking about the people you left behind in [country] when you came to America?”  (Yes.)  “Are you thinking about some very specific people?”  (Yes.)  “It sounds like you’re thinking about your friends at the orphanage, but are you also thinking about [birthmom]?”  (Yes.  And OH, YES!)  This opened the door for more questions.  “Why did she do this?”  “Why did that have to happen?”  “Why did I have to go into an orphanage?”  “Why didn’t she come see me?”  “Why didn’t she come GET me?”  “What is she doing now?”  “Does she know where I am?”  “Does she think about me?”  “Do I matter to her?” 

These are questions our kids have.  We can’t ignore it.  We can’t take it personally.  We need to put ourselves in their shoes and acknowledge their loss – and their survivor’s guilt.  We can reassure.  We can love.  It won’t take the questions away.  They remain and the questions are sleeping dogs we cannot let lie, lest they wake with a vengeance.  We won’t always have definitive answers to the questions, but we can listen and acknowledge them.  It’s okay to let our kids know we wonder, too.

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It’s not quite 11 a.m.  I think I’ll let the sleeping teenagers lie a while longer.  I do enjoy the quiet.

More About Grief & Loss: Dreams

Wow, how about this?!  Two posts in one day from Trauma Mama T.   Seriously, I didn’t think I had it in me.  But really, I struggled with whether or not to post what I’m about to write.  It’s a bit personal.  Still, I think it may be helpful for me to write it down.  Writing helps me to process things.  What I write may also be helpful for some of you, dear readers.

I’ve written about grief and loss in adoption on my blog before.  You can read that post here.  Today, though, I want to talk more about anniversaries.  You see, January is the anniversary of a significant traumatic incident in my kids’ lives – and especially in the life of my youngest son.  He’s 16 now.  He was 6.5 when this very significant trauma happened.  My son’s first father died at his own hand, and my son is the one who found his body.  This may shock some of you.  Others are no longer shockable because they know this or worse.  But this is our life.  This was my kids’ life.  It’s not something anyone “gets over.”

I have two pictures of my youngest children’s birth father (one of their birth mother).  In one photo, my kids’ first father is standing proudly, looking very Eastern European, not smiling, of course, and is behind his sister as they pose for her wedding picture.  He is young and handsome.  His hair is wavy, just like my son’s.  He looks a lot like my son.  In the other picture, his birth mother is also visible (though grainy).  My son is in this picture, as well as many of his birth father’s family.  They are standing around his father’s coffin.  The coffin lid is open and they are saying goodbye before they bury him.  His face is clearly visible.  (My daughter would have been 3.5 at the time.  She did not attend the funeral, according to my son’s paternal grandmother.)

I haven’t been sleeping well lately.  I’m stressed about several things.  Financial stuff, mainly.  It happens.  Anyway, I came out to the sofa two nights ago so I wouldn’t keep my husband awake with my tossing and turning.  At about 4 a.m., my son came out and turned on the computer.  He’s not supposed to be on the computer unsupervised.  (It’s password protected, but he keeps figuring out the password anyway.)  He’s certainly not supposed to be up at 4 a.m., wandering around the house.  He didn’t know I was in the room.  He was very focused, it seemed, on just getting to the computer. 

I asked him (sternly), “What are you doing?”  He replied, “I’m going on the computer.”  I told him to get off the computer and go back to bed.  When we got up to get ready for work/school, he told my husband he’d had a bad dream.  He didn’t remember actually going to the computer, he said.  He just remembers being told by me to get off the computer.  He said he’d had a bad dream about his biological father.  His father was chasing him and trying to hurt him, maybe even trying to kill him (we have no record of his birth father ever trying to harm him other than neglecting him when separated from his mother, though we do know one of the men his mother ran around with was very violent).  He said his father told him he had to get a paper off our computer to prove that his father was really alive.  Our son said he thinks he must have been sleepwalking.  I didn’t believe him, frankly.  I still don’t.  He’s lied so many times to cover his actions.

He didn’t seem “with it” before school and I asked him if he was okay.  He seemed almost ill.  I asked him if he wanted to stay home from school.  He did not.  So he went to school.  Later that evening, when my husband was home from work and dinner was over, the three of us sat down to process the dream.

Our son said he’d been thinking a lot about his birth father lately and sometimes he has a hard time believing the man is really dead.  I asked him if he remembers the funeral and he says he does, but that seems like it was a dream, too.  I asked him if he wanted me to show him the photograph and/or the copy of his birth father’s death certificate.  He did not want to see either.  So we talked. 

I reminded him how we’ve learned in therapy that anniversaries can trigger big feelings even when we’re not aware of them.  I reminded him that January was the anniversary of his father’s death and, just like I had a hard time last December 1^st (the 10^th anniversary of my mother’s death), he was likely having a hard time with the anniversary of his father’s death, too.  It was normal.  It’s what the middle part of brains do when we remember traumatic things.  We told him how sorry we were that he’d had to go through that.  We said no kid should have to go through what you went through and what you still have to go through now.  He’s a big, very strong, 16 year old boy.  But in that moment, as we talked, he was a very sad 6.5 year old again who needed to be held.  I asked him if we could hug him – something he usually resists.  We stood and he melted into my husband’s arms, my arms around the both of them.  He sobbed for a long time.  He did not let go of his Daddy.  It was pretty amazing.

I could have pushed the computer issue.  I could have challenged him and said he was lying about sleep walking.  I do believe he really did want to get on the computer and see if there was some way he could prove whether or not his birth father was alive or dead.  But this wasn't about lying or covering his tracks.  It wasn’t about using the computer at 4 a.m. without supervision.  

It was about grief.

Him.  Holding my husband.  Allowing my husband to hold him.  A.  Long.  Time. 

Wow.

Again, I know this is pretty personal.  One of the reasons I blog anonymously is so that I can help others as I process big things myself.  I trust that those of you who know me (and thus already know the basics of my kids’ stories) will protect us as well.

It’s Not ‘bout You, Mama

I spent a very thank-filled day yesterday, and have begun today in much the same way.  I am truly living this day as fully as I can, even if I live it simply and within my regular routine.  Because of recent experience, I am more aware of how even the simple, the routine, and even the simple routine CRAZINESS of raising traumatized kids is truly a blessing.  Today is a gift.  That’s not just an old cliché. 

Yesterday, I wrote about the trauma triggers my kids experience when we celebrate family milestones – like my 22 year-old son’s college graduation last Sunday.  There are many reasons my kids do not handle celebrations well.  One reason is because they did not receive the attention they needed as young children.  They were terribly neglected by their birth mother.  That neglect continued when they entered the orphanage system in Eastern Europe.  The reason my son gets angry, and my daughter does everything she can to get attention (even negative attention), is because they still haven’t had their emotional buckets filled.  Their needs are still not met, even though they’ve been home four years.  They still need attention.  When they act like a baby or are angry, it’s because they didn’t get what they needed as babies.

When this happens, we do not coddle them, but we also do not ignore them.  Granted, there are times when it gets to be too much, and like I wrote yesterday, even I need a time out from the craziness.  We don’t allow celebrations to turn into events that make the day more about them when it’s not, but we do help them process what’s going on.  For my son, we might say, “You seem like you’re far away.  WHAT (not why – I have learned not to ask “why” questions of my traumatized kids) are you thinking?”  If he says he doesn’t know (which he does a lot), we make suggestions to help him.  For example, “I wonder if you’re sad because your brother is receiving a lot of praise from us today and you know he’s always had it.  I wonder if you wish we’d had you all along so you could have had that pride from us all your life, and if you’re not angry that you didn’t get it from your birthparents, or the orphanage caregivers, when you were little?” 

There are times he’ll say, “That’s not it,” and become even more angry.  We know we’re right on track when that happens.  Other times, he’ll say, “That’s not it” and then tell us what’s going on.

Our daughter isn’t as cognitive when she’s triggered.  Her trauma is very emotion-based because she doesn’t have clear memory of her neglect.  She acts out.  She’s unable to say, “I need attention” on her own.  We always have to remind her that she’s acting much younger than she is because she doesn’t see it.  She never realizes she’s using her “baby voice,” or that she’s quite literally bouncing off the walls.  We always have to remind her of her “tools.”  They are:  stop, take a breath, take another breath, and think.  She always needs help with the last thing:  think.  We identify for her that she needs to tell us what it is she really wants or needs.  Thankfully, she’s able to do that when she’s reminded.

My kids have lost a lot.  And so, in addition to the trauma trigger that celebrations are for our family, whenever I am sick, even with the slightest cold, my kids are also triggered.  However, we had a bigger scare this last week.  We didn’t tell the kids everything and we didn’t share all our worries, but they were aware there was something going on and it added to the crazy behavior – behavior we’re still dealing with even now that we’ve gotten fairly good news.

Last week, I noticed a lump on my left rib cage.  I saw the doctor and he was “concerned.”  I had to wait another day to get in to the hospital to get a CT scan with an IV contrast.  They couldn’t get the IV started.  I got stuck three times.  My anxiety level was pretty high.  My mother and both my grandmothers died of cancer at the holidays.  My prayer has always been that I not get sick and that I not die at the holidays.  (May sound silly, but I’m being real.  I don’t want my kids – any of my kids – to have that trauma trigger every stinkin’ year.)

Finally, they got the contrast started and did the scan.  It went quickly once I had the contrast in me, but it made me pretty sick for a few moments.  Then I waited again.  Friends prayed.  I had peace, and I slept well that night, but I was still pretty frightened.  All the kids knew was that I was undergoing a test to see if I needed to have surgery to remove the lump on my rib.

The next day, my doctor’s nurse called and told me I have a lipoma – a benign fatty tumor.  We need to watch it and if it grows, I may need surgery later, but for now, I don’t need any treatment.  To say that my husband and I were very relieved is an understatement.  Again, I am very thankful.  God certainly allowed the experience to remind me how each day He gives me is a blessing.

It’s hard to hide when you’re anxious.  I was weepy off and on that day and night, as I waited on the results.  I hid some of that from my kids, but I wasn’t able to hide all of it.  I talked with our therapist about this and she agreed that maybe it’s not such a bad thing my kids see emotions are a normal part of dealing with life – all emotions.  She and I agreed it was a good thing for them to see that I needed the support of my friends when I was scared, but that I would be okay, too.

My kids have experienced traumatic loss.  They’re scared they’ll lose me, too.  But it’s not about me; it’s about what they haven’t had, and it’s about the needs they haven’t had filled.  Even though my son is in a constant “dance” of push and pull with me – of wanting to be close, but not too close, and then causing us both pain when it gets too uncomfortable for him, he still does not want to lose me.  He’s lost so much else.  Every little illness frightens him and his sister. 

Just as they did not receive the attention they needed as young children, they also did not experience the repetitive lessons a young child needs in order to learn life’s lessons – like healthy moms can get sick, but they can also get better and everything doesn’t need to completely fall apart.  That’s about them, too, but that’s also where I can help.  It gets hard doing and saying the same things over and over again to teenagers as though they were 3 year-old toddlers, but that’s where their needs were not met.  I am thankful God allows me to be that “broken record” I have complained I need to be too often.  Things can get hard around here, but we have a certain glue that doesn’t let us fall completely apart.

Even if the tumor had not been benign, I would want them to know everything doesn’t need to completely fall apart.  And so, I’ve been reminded in a new way how each day is a gift.  Even the hard days.  As one friend wrote, “Even if it rains on my parade, I’ll still be there marching.”  If I can teach that to my kids and they can grab hold to even some of it, then I am even more thankful.

About Grief and Loss in Adoption

My mother died ten years ago today.  I am surprised at the intensity with which this anniversary has affected me.  I am very emotional today.  It is different than it was that day ten years ago, but I almost feel more depth of reeling today than I did then.  It seems I had such calculated control back then.  Today, I'm crying at the slightest remembrance.

I remember specific moments from that weekend.  I remember the surreal feeling of driving for two days to get to her hospital bedside.  She knew she was sick for a long time, but she didn’t let any of us know.  She wanted to “go quickly” for our sake, as she wrote in notes I found months after her death.

I remember singing to her.  She was nonverbal by the time I arrived at the hospital.  Still, she responded to my singing, even letting me know she wanted me to STOP singing one particular children’s Sunday School song.  I couldn’t think of songs to sing.  She wanted me to keep singing.  So, I started singing songs she sang to me as a child.  I guess some of those songs were a little obnoxious.

I also remember the deep, labored breathing and the unbelievable amount of time between those last several breaths.  I remember the moment we realized she was gone.  I remember little else until the funeral five days later, when someone (I can’t remember who) said, “They’re waiting for you.”   It was time to place my rose on her casket at the graveside, and walk away.  I remember thinking, “Why do I have to go first?!”  I did what was expected of me and walked quickly away.  I said, “Dammit.”  My mom’s best friend is the only one who came after me.  God, it’s so hard, even now.

Today, I grieve for the relationship, and that she’s not here to see her two newest grandchildren, or meet my first daughter-in-law.  I grieve that she left us at this time of year, and I pray (every year I pray) and ask God to not allow me to leave my kids around the holidays!  I grieve because I live a two days’ drive away from her grave and I cannot place a flower there today.  I grieve because I miss her.  Terribly.

This loss, though difficult, is part of life.  It is hard, but it is expected.  It is not unusual for an adult to have to say, “Until we meet again in Heaven,” to their parent.  This grief is normal.

My kids, on the other hand, have experienced grief beyond that which any child should.  They’ve experienced the grief of losing their biological family.  They’ve experienced the grief of leaving their first county and first language.  They’ve experienced the loss of all they knew.  While it is true that they have gained by being adopted into our family, they have experienced profound loss.  As their parents, we need to acknowledge that loss.  Additionally, we need to understand our own loss in adoption.  We lost the time in our children’s lives before we knew them.  We lost some of the dreams we’ve had, even as we’ve embraced new dreams for our children.  There is grief and loss in adoption.  It is okay to acknowledge this.  It is okay to grieve.  It is important to help our children process and come through grief.

Anniversaries of our children’s losses may be hard on them, just as today is hard on me.  While they may not cognitively remember a date or an event, their sense memory – the part of their brains and their souls that holds their emotions and their spirit, will remember.  Sometimes, it can take them and us by surprise, but we don’t need to be surprised when it happens.  We can expect it.  We should expect it.  That way, we can be ready to comfort one another.

Here are some links to learn more about helping your child (and you) deal with grief and loss in adoption:

 http://www.childwelfare.gov/adoption/adopt_parenting/helping.cfm

http://library.adoption.com/articles/grief-and-loss-issues-for-adopted-children.html

http://www.attachmentcoalition.org/GriefLoss.pdf

http://www.adoptive-parenting.com/adoption-loss.html

Please feel free to share your family’s experience with grief and loss in adoption in the comment section of this post.