waiting

now i wait for that birth certificate - i can't really do anything to move this process forward until i get those names in my hands. i'm nervous, i'm excited, i'm psyched, i'm scared, i hope it gets here tomorrow, i hope it takes 6 more weeks....

the wait is good, though - it forces me to take a deeper look into why i decided to send my check to the state of alabama to get that piece of paper. even to me it kinda feels like i decided to embark this search on a whim with no more thought than what i put into deciding what i'm going to eat for lunch.

but that feeling stems from the fact that being adopted, to me, is no different than having eyes a particular shade of blue or hair that curls a certain way or a fondness for reading novels that will someday be adapted into screenplays. being adopted is one of the building blocks that makes me who i am, so fundamental that often i take it for granted, maybe even forget a little bit.

but no matter my forgetfulness, the fact of my birth always remains; always there, in some part of my mind, is the knowledge that i was not raised by the same woman who gave birth to me. but although this knowledge is a constant part of me, trying to describe what this knowledge feels like is as easy as explaining what it feels like for non-adoptees to be raised by the same woman who DID give birth to them.

trying to describe how it feels to be a certain way when you've been that way forever is damn near impossible - for me, at least. i have trouble finding the words to describe why i'm doing this, or how i've actually been thinking about it for the last 29 years.

i suppose the best way to describe my adopted status is to claim a sense of otherness. i don't want it to seem like i've felt like an outsider my whole life, like i've felt alien in my own family - far from it. my mom is my mom, my dad my dad, my cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents MY cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents. but as much as i feel like a member of this tribe with the funny last name, there is a sense of being apart, of being an objective observer. it is impossible to be completely objective in one's family, of course - i think a better way to say it would be to claim a dual awareness - i am this, but i am also that. i am of this family, but i am also of another silent, unseen family.

and again, words fail me: those silenced, those unseen - family? biological family? how can there be a family if the members have never met? the shortcomings of language - if there's a whole word for the appreciation of cherry blossom season, there must be those for blood relatives one has never met, or the simultaneous feeling of inclusion and otherness.

these ruminations on the feeling of adoption is all background, of course - despite the wonder that is a constant of my existence, what pushed me to try to transform that wonder into knowledge?

a lot of it has to do with my current emotional existence - i feel ready for this even if i can't express exactly why. in fact, i've felt ready for a while, but i honestly thought the process would be a lot more difficult than mailing a check to alabama. i thought i'd have to hire a lawyer, a private investigator, etc, and begin this Process that would be exhausting and emotional. proceeding this way is no less emotional, but certainly not exhausting. if it is this easy to get a name, why NOT do it?

i was ready last year, but then my mom passed away after years of emotional, mental and physical turmoil. so i put away the otherness for a little while and stood firmly in my daughter shoes. i mourned my mom, i mourned our relationship. i knew that i didn't want to get confused as to what i was looking for in a biological mother, or for her to get the wrong idea of what i was seeking.

but a year has passed since my mom died. i'll always miss her and some days i miss her so much i can hardly stand it - but the hardest part (i think) is over. i'm not going to wake up one day and find her to be not dead - no matter if i find my biological mother 6 months or 6 years or 6 decades from now, the woman who raised me is gone. before i lost her, i thought i had all the time in the world to build a relationship that was stronger than the anger and sadness and regret that had grown between us. before she died, i put years of hard work into becoming a strong woman who could retain her sense of self no matter what life offered, who could remain confident in the face of a turbulent relationship. in fact, i had just reached out to my mother a few months before she passed - i was trying, and i was figuring out what an adult relationship with my mother would actually be like.

but i was too late. i procrastinated too much. i got too scared. and after she died, i promised myself that fear would not get in the way of my relationships ever again, that i would pursue what i desired without regrets. that i would say what i meant and be happy that i said it no matter the results.

and i suppose that lesson is what got me here. i needed a year to mourn, i needed a year to practice (or pretend) fearlessness.

and despite my trepidation, despite my second-guesses and need for introspection, my optimism remains. i wouldn't even get my birth certificate if i didn't appreciate just how special my circumstance is. i have a chance to meet the woman who knew me more intimately than anyone else; i KNOW in my heart that she thinks of me - sometimes i can even feel her, i swear.

this search might end in sadness and disappointment. but it is just as likely is that it might actually be a beginning of the most unique and special relationships of my life. and it is definite that no matter the outcome, i will have no regrets.