Valid - a guest blog by adoptee Helen Mary
Only slowly their hurt dies cry by cry
As they fit themselves to what has happened
Ted Hughes (1985)
I met my mother for the very first time in the Autumn of 1994 when I was 29 years old. In Debenhams café in Hull. No third party, no preparation, no help, no mediation, it didn’t seem necessary at the time. Just a bright and sunny morning full of hope and promise.
I realise now looking back the enormity ofsuch a meeting, and wonder whether the support of an insightful and wise professional would have been helpful. I can see my tendency to minimise or deny things. Thinking I can do this on my own.
My birth mother was late for our meeting, about twenty minutes late, I’d started to think she wasn’t coming. That’s how much I’m worth, not really much. There weren’t even mobile phones then, I just sat and waited, and wondered if my mother may actually have decided not to bother coming. Passive acceptance on the one hand, a flicker of anger on the other (how dare she let me down - these angry feelings are fleeting, and possibly healthier than my usual passivity).
An age passed and eventually my mother turned up. She had one of my sisters with her (I’d learnt that I have two biological sisters). She hadn’t mentioned she was going to bring my sister and I wasn’t prepared for this. Why didn’t she come alone, just herself? Surely. Now I felt a bit like a curiosity they’d come to see, the two of them in their alliance. I didn’t think it was respectful to come like this. I suddenly felt very alone there in that café. This extraordinary event amid the clattering of crockery, the coffee machine, the shoppers and ordinary life.
On one level, on the surface there was something sort of nice. Meeting someone who I could see was a bit like me (scatter brained- she’d forgotten where she had parked her car. My adoptive parents were very organised, competent, things were planned, there were routines). I don’t recall us hugging or embracing. Not genuinely, possibly not at all. There was no emotion really. We got along but it was as if we were just chatting, like we were shoppers meeting for a cup of tea. I was polite and accommodating. So much was denied. I suppose it just didn’t feel real. I couldn’t really imagine what real would feel like.
“The adoption system traditionally requires that children disavow reality.” Lifton (1994)
Looking back, I suppose I’d imagined something life changing and healing would happen that day. That my motherwould embrace me with love and I would suddenly feel profoundly alive in a way I had not previously known. Alas that didn’t happen, those hopes and dreams already ebbing away in those endlessly long minutes of waiting..
Also, looking back, I think this story illustrates that its probably not a good idea to undertake such a journey on your own
And finally I should add that there is eventually a happier ending, but that is another story….
