18…the magic number in first mother land. It is the age of adulthood for adoptees and for me, the age when I can finally reach out to my son.
My head keeps dreaming of the day when I am able to contact him. I know this is probably a fantasy though. The fact of the matter is, I have no idea what kind of 18 year old my son will grow up to be. He is 14 now so I have 4 long years to ruminate and think about every possible outcome to contact, if I am even able to do so.
My greatest hope is that he will be open to a relationship on some level. That he will be a happy 18 year old who is curious about his roots. That his adoptive parents will have nurtured his curiousity and not stifled it.
I pour over every adult adoptee’s blog I can read looking for an answer to how my son will feel about me. The truth is, there is no one answer. Most reunions have their ups and downs and there is just not one right answer to what will happen.
My greatest fear is that he will not be the least bit interested in getting to know me and his siblings. My greatest fear is that he will be angry and feel that I abandoned him.
It is so difficult being in a closed adoption. I have no idea what my son has been told about me. I don’t know if he ever asks about me. I don’t even know what his parents had been told about me, or if they even cared. The only thing I know for sure is that his parents don’t want me in his or their life right now. This hurts on a primal level.
I have read so many articles about how adolescents can experience identity crises at around his age now. I want so much to tell him he was wanted. He was loved. I am so sorry I gave him up for adoption. If he is angry, I want to let him yell at me. I want him to scream insults and profanities. Anything is better than not knowing. Anything is better than this blank fucking hole in my soul.
I can’t imagine what it feels like to go through life not knowing your own “birth story”. Not knowing the circumstances surrounding your adoption (other than your parents wanting to raise you). Not knowing that I held you for 2 days when you were born, that I named you, that I loved you to my core. I still love you, I will always love you.
I feel like I have been white knuckling through the last 14 years, waiting for that magic 18. My heart says 4 more years to go. But the truth is that no matter what my heart tells me, there is no guarantee that my son will even respond to me when I contact him. There is no guarantee that he will acknowledge me at all. This is a reality that I am going to have to face over the next 4 years. But for now, my soul is hanging on by its fingertips to the hope that I will see my son again.