Reflection of My Unknown Birth

Some people say that in order to know your future, or to know who you are, you have to know your past.

To these people, I respectfully say: "Bullshit, I'm living proof."

For those of you who don't know, I'm adopted. And when you want to know why your mother gave you up at birth when your seven years old, what you're told is a large stretch of the truth. Then when you're ten, you learn something that is contradicting to what you thought, and then eventually you find out the 'real' story. The problem is that you've heard so many stories over the years that they've all melded into this kind of all-consuming, hypocritical truth that's really hard to remember all the parts of. So I honestly have no clue why I was adopted, whether or not my mother loved me, or anything about the family I came from. But I know who I am.

I do know some things. For instance, my birth mother's name. Shannon McGowen. My father was some architect or contractor or something and his name was Moses. No joke. I have a half-brother out there somewhere. My birth-father agreed with whatever Shannon thought was right to do with the baby. Oh, and I was never meant to exist. My mother had some sort of disorder or medication or SOMEthing where she didn't think it was possible to get pregnant. The chance was just low. And she found out I existed a little too late to get rid of me. She wasn't married, and as far as I know wasn't especially wealthy either. She was a drug addict. She kicked the habit, but her sister Moira did not and jumped off a bridge with her boyfriend when I was about eight. I have never had contact with Shannon. I am told she used to visit, but stopped. It was an open adoption and she could come see me anytime, but has not. I do not know why. I do not know why I was given up. I do not know my family's medical history, or where I came from. Yet I know who I am.

I didn't used to know all the not-so-nice details of my family. Those are a recent discovery. One day I was explaining to a friend how I was adopted and answering the usual questions about it when they abruptly said "You know, your mom is going to end up being a druggie or something." You don't really know how much this impacted me then. Because it was possible. She could be, and I didn't know it. I had done up until that point what quite a few adopted and foster kids and people who don't know thier blood family do, I was imagining my life would be perfect if only I hadn't been adopted.

Because shit happens. People complain, but I would always think, "if I weren't adopted, my life would be like this and this" I would be rich. I would have the perfect parents. I wouldn't have this problem or that problem because I wouldn't have this life. It wasn't that I blamed my parents for adopting me and Shannon for giving me up. No, it had just happend, and if it had not, life would be different and different had to be better.

So on that day, Charles made me realize how grateful I was that I was in this life, living with these people. I could've had a worse life. I could've gotten adopted by some jackass who didn't give a shit or beat me or something. It could have been better, but it also could have been worse.

And then, of course. I was curious if she really was a druggie and found out the "real" story. And of course she was. But hearing my mom and sister go on and on about what they think happend made me realize something else. These two people in front of me, they were my mom and my sister. My momma. My Dezzi. Shannon was... Shannon. She was the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months, who went through the pain of having me, the effort of finding the perfect family to give me to and I didn't feel at all close to her. She wasn't my mom. Biologically, yes. But in any other way, no. She was a stranger to me. And I felt guilty, I feel guilty, that I think of her that way. She went through all this effort but I still will not call her my mom. She may love me, but I have no feelings towards her.

And yeah, one day I'd be interested to see who she is. I want to meet the woman who gave me up. But I'm also afraid that she won't want to see me, but tough shit. I mean, there has to be a reason she hasn't contacted me in 15 years. And I don't so much want to meet her, as I want to meet the person she was when she gave me up. I don't want to hear a 15-year thought out justification of why she gave me up. I want to hear the decision made when it was made. bot don't get me wrong, maybe she had a good reason to give me up. Maybe she loved me. But maybe not. So I'm not really sure how I feel on the subject, actually. If she wanted to see me, okay I'll meet her. But if she doesn't take any steps to find me, should I take the steps to find the person who gave me up 15 years ago to listen to the well-planned answers to all of the questions? I want the real story. Is that so selfish?