When I was about 12 years-old, my adoptive mom decided to tell me about the brother I “almost” had. Apparently, my parents received a call from the adoption agency I’d come from about two years after I’d been placed with them. There was a little boy available for adoption, and the agency wanted to know if my parents were ready to grow their family. According to my mother’s recounting, my parents thought long and hard about adding another child and decided to pursue the agency’s offer. However, when they began questioning the “quality” of the child, my parents learned there were some potential health concerns for the little boy. They promptly backed out. I recall my mother angrily narrating the details of this boy’s stats, and her repulsion at the thought of receiving a child who was less than perfect. The how-dare-they-try-to-pawn-off-this-substandard-kid tone of her voice was sharp, and to this day I can feel the arrogance my 12-year-old-self heard in the story.
I cried when my mother left the room. And I kept crying, for days, in private. I grieved this little boy that I never knew. I now believe I was also grieving a part of myself. I sealed in the not-so-subtle message of my mother’s tale. They only wanted perfection, not just in that little boy they’d even chosen a name for, but in me. I became keenly aware of the standard I must meet in order to remain kept. That’s how it works, right? I consciously began to filter the me I let them see. The unacceptable-to-them parts were compartmentalized into the persona I showed when I was absent from their presence. Because Junior High isn’t a crazy enough time for kids already? I had been with them long enough to know the people in the world whom they deemed worthy. Any scrap of me that might align with their list of qualities that made a person disposable had to be tucked away.
Nearly forty years later, I am unpacking a lot. The deep-seated beliefs of who I’m allowed to be continue to unravel. I am a middle-aged woman who often feels child-like in my fear of not doing well enough. There are things I long to do, things that are creative by nature, and I struggle to make any sort of attempt at them. Rewiring my brain isn’t easy, but I keep trying. Baby steps. For that younger me who didn’t try any of it. We’ll figure it out together.