Permission to grieve, please

It's been a year since I've felt brave enough to put any of my thoughts in writing. I've been floundering in a turbulent ocean of emotions. I apologize in advance for the inarticulate ramblings below.

When I try to reflect on the past year, there is a haze. I think I am probably still in that haze. I'm in the middle of an ocean; I can't see solid land. On rare, sunny days, I enjoy riding the waves, it feels exhilarating, I try to convince myself to be excited for where they take me. But many days are grey, I am treading water, just trying to conserve energy. And suddenly the past week, I feel like I might be drowning again, looking up from the bottom of the ocean. I know there is light above, but it is so far away.

Last year was one of the darkest periods I've experienced since attempting suicide at 14. Therapy wasn't enough. I started an anti-depressant for the first time in my life. As weeks passed, I slowly floated up, I thought I was riding the waves pretty well. I ended my regular therapy appointments. We talked about having a second child, and I felt confident enough to slowly wean off my antidepressant. (Just because I'm Asian, doesn't make me smart.)

You know how they say you should consult with your doctor, you should pair therapy with medication, blah, blah, blah.

I'm that idiot who never listens.

And now I'm sunk again, feeling stupid and sad and angry and numb and confused and lost and alone. I know I need to ask for help. But it is so hard. And so humiliating because I feel like it is all my fault I am here.

This last plunge seems to have started with the Baby Veronica case. On one hand, it spurred me to advocacy. I felt brave enough and strong enough to begin posting about the case on my personal Facebook page. I started talking to my broader circle of friends about adoption, and being more "public" about my thoughts and experience. I began to follow and share voices and perspectives in the adoption community. I didn't feel like I needed to hide behind this anonymous blog.

And yet, maybe I was never fully truthful -- even to myself.

I like to think I'm pretty self aware, even if the facade doesn't match the interior. On the outside, I am a successful wife, professional and mother. I am respected for my communications skills, my ability to work with others, my intelligence, my get-it-done (nicely!) attitude.

When it comes to the ability to perceive emotions in others and manage them, I'm a straight A student. [My latest therapist suggested this was actually a survival skill developed in childhood. Hypervigilance, perhaps.]

And yet, when it comes to my own emotions, I am flunking out. I have been able to compensate, to hide this weakness, somehow, in my professional life to date. (In my personal life, well ... I have a very patient and accommodating partner. Those who know my dark side might suggest he is a saint.)

But lately, I feel like the mask of control, of promise, of perfection, is about to fall. I cannot sustain the act. I am about to be revealed for a fraud.

Triggers are a bitch.

I heard Eminem's song "Headlights," featuring Nate Ruess, on the radio for the first time Wednesday. I started crying in the car, but I didn't understand why. I brushed it off, picked up my daughter from preschool, and pushed the song (and my reaction) out of my mind.

Thursday, I read Deanna Shrodes' conversation with Rebecca Hawkes, "Adoptees and Anger Toward Our Natural Mothers (And Others)." My initial response was, "Amen!" I wanted to share with my friends, but couldn't figure out exactly what I wanted to say about it, so I tried to push it, also, out of my mind.

Yesterday, I heard a nationally-known rape survivor speak. I was there for work. Before she spoke, event organizers made a point of saying the event was a "safe space." They acknowledged the speaker's talk might be triggering for some people, and they had trained crisis-intervention counselors on hand. Professional hat on, I was thinking how that could make a great angle for a story. How we support each other? I suppressed any personal feelings; after all, the professional me is still in the (nutcase) closet..

Today, I am wishing I had never heard her speak. Instead of feeling inspired, I left feeling confused and, today, depressed.

She spoke of how we all have problems, and when we have hard times, we always have a choice. We can stay in bed feeling sorry for ourselves or we can get up and "do what has to be done." She talked about not living in the past, not wallowing in self pity, punishing your abusers by being happy and moving forward.

On a good day or week or year, I can get on the empowerment bandwagon. In fact, times when I have come out of the nutcase closet, revealed some of my personal struggles, and been complimented for my "success," I'm pretty sure I've said those exact words.

But I had trouble finding comfort in those words last night. And that wasn't the worst of it.

Over and over, the speaker emphasized her family's love, and how it helped her survive. That no matter what happened to her, she knew her family would always love her. She focused on the sound of her mother's voice, memories of her father and brothers. She was so secure in her knowledge of their love for her.

As I'm taking notes, I'm trying to ignore the emotions that begin welling from that strange, uncomfortable place in my gut. I'm having flashbacks to my childhood with a mother who convinced social workers, ministers, teachers and reporters that she was Maria von Trapp instead of Joan Crawford. I'm remembering sadness and fear and hurt and ... oh my god, I used to be so angry. Must. suppress. anger.

At this point, had my head been anywhere besides my ass, I should have excused myself. Or at least put down the pen, stopped listening to the speaker and tried listening to the sad little girl inside me.

But I didn't. So I was still writing when I heard her say she was grateful for what happened to her. Whoa. What? I looked up. She repeated, "I am grateful." My fingers suddenly clumsy, I struggled to record her exact words, but I managed to scratch out "grateful ... for experience ... for what allowed me to do ... people allowed me to meet."

I don't have to explain to "angry" adoptees and our allies why I have an immediate reaction when the concepts of gratitude and opportunity are connected with trauma.

I believe we should accept and validate each other's feelings, and even the speaker was careful to note that everyone's experience and feelings are unique. Rationally, I know her truth is not mine, and that is OK. But emotionally, I can't help wondering, what the eff is wrong with me?

I want to get to that place where I can choose to "move on." Where I can be grateful, not sad and angry about what has happened in my past. Where I can be sustained by the love of the family I have created. Where I can focus on what I have, not what I don't.

But I'm hurting.

The raw pain in Marshall Mathers' voice when he raps about his absent father: "Oh, what a tangled web we have. Cause one thing I never asked was where the f*** my deadbeat dad was. F*** it, I guess he had trouble keeping up with every address. But I'd have flipped every mattress, every rock and desert cactus. Own a collection of maps and followed my kids to the edge of the atlas."

It breaks me.

And yet, I am still so afraid to be angry.

Motherland, Day 11: A homecoming, part 2

This morning I felt so connected, grounded, hungry to spend more time in Hualien. This afternoon, I couldn't wait to leave. Despite my desire to stay this morning, this evening, I feel homesick. I yearn for the comfort of my husband's arms, my daughter's voice. I yearn for the home I have made, an ocean away from the island where I was born. I yearn to belong somewhere, and I just don't feel it here.

No news from the intermediary, which is disappointing. I guess over the past few days, as I thought about how I might respond to the opportunity to meet a biological relative, I started to think it could be possible. I needed to envision it in order to prepare for it, to gain the nerve to say "yes" when my brain is screaming "no!" I can't afford to have any regrets after this trip. I don't know when or if I will be able to return.

Today, I crossed a rope bridge between two sides of Taroko Gorge. It was the scariest thing I've ever done! Adrenalin kicked in, I focused only on making it to the other side. On the way back, I paused to try to take in the view. I wish I had not left my camera on the bus. I hope I never forget that feeling of accomplishment.

No regrets. No regrets. No regrets.

Motherland, Day 10: A homecoming

Words cannot describe the beauty on the coast of my birth place, Hualien. As I type, it is 6 a.m. of Day 11, and the sun is beginning to rise. The ocean's tide, ever consistent, is calming. To my left, shadows of mountains are beginning to emerge. Below them, city lights twinkle. Several photographers are already positioned on the beach. We are all waiting for the sun to illuminate the clouds that rest upon the sea.

I am in awe. I wish to never leave. I cannot stop wondering what might have been.

A buoy flashes. Two walkers pass by. In the distance, trucks are waking up. The horizon begin to pink.

6:15: The ocean is gleaming. A rolling, shimmery skin. Waves roll in, cresting blue-green before crashing to the beach in a white foam. A black, wolfish-looking dog trots by.

What could have been, had I never left Hualien? Would I be working the graveyard shift at the Family Mart, selling vodka juice to American tourists on a Monday night? Would I be serving clam soup in a lonely seaside restaurant? Could I have attended Tung-Wa University just north of the city, a quiet haven with palm trees and mountain views? Could I have become a writer? A wife? A mother? Would I have escaped to Taipei, or ventured beyond Taiwan's shores?

A spry elder walks by, slightly bowlegged, but moving at a brisk pace. Could he be my Taiwanese grandfather?

6:30: The mountains stand proud, firm, unmoving, while the ocean rolls below. It shimmers green against the blue-black mountains; shines blue when contrasted with the lush green of the landscape. Another old man trudges by me with a bicycle. Perhaps he is my grandfather. Or great-uncle. Or really, just a stranger in this land as I am.

7 a.m. The top of the mountain is illuminated, hugged by a wispy cloud. The sun's rays beam through a break in the clouds to the east. Fishing boats make their way to their nets. A bulldozer drops a small boat on the sand - it looks like a raft with curved edges. Is it my imagination, or do the waves crest higher? Rolling, crashing, rolling, foaming. The beauty here is indescribable. As is the loss.

My eyes are hungry. My head is full. The rocks in my pocket are as heavy as my heart, knowing I must depart. Again.

Apologies

It's taking forever for me to post my writings from Taiwan. I apologize. It's just very emotional for me, and sometimes I just don't want to think ... or feel ... about this.

Motherland, Day 6: Solace in solitude

I've been trying to figure out why I react the way I do to learning information I have actively sought out. Yesterday, sitting in the adoption information center's waiting room trying to absorb all the new information, I felt a mix of numbness and sadness. This morning I cried in the shower.

Some have compared the adoption emotional journey as one of grief and loss. Just yesterday I asked someone, "How do you grieve what you don't know?" And this morning it hit me. Every piece of the puzzle that I find -- every detail I didn't know that I now know -- is one I must grieve. Learning of new, or more vividly described, family members makes me wonder what might have been. It makes the loss of family and culture more acute. It makes me sad to think of people with whom I will probably never have a relationship. Uncles Miss M may never know. Grandparents I never knew.

Understanding how I feel is also what prevents me from pulling out all the stops to find these family members. Just as I grieve to learn of them, surely learning of me could cause them some sadness. Or maybe not. Maybe they will assume I am so lucky, they did me a favor, I should be grateful, or -- worse -- I owe them. Yet another reason to be cautious in my search. I have a family of my own to protect.

Motherland, Day 5: Thankful and thought-full

Today was intense.

It started with a provoking process session that focused around inequity and privilege and the guilt that some of us feel about it. It is clear in Taiwan that many (but not all!) people idealize, and even idolize, America. For example, the field of counseling psychology in Taiwan is modeled after American programs and studies. "Indigenous" research is an emerging area. It is important to build a body of research that reflects Taiwan's cultural perspective.

Another example: I stopped in a night market shop this evening that looked cheaper than a dollar general but had American clothes: AE, random university-branded attire, etc. I saw a pair of infant Jumping Beans sweatpants for the equivalent of $8 USD, twice what they would cost at Kohls! And all of the attire looked like rejects from a 75% off sales bin.

For me, while I can say that I understand I am privileged, I don't always know if I feel or believe it, because I never felt privileged growing up. However, when I am here, I cannot disregard or be ignorant of the fact that many Taiwanese perceive me as coming from a place of privilege. So for me to complain about my struggles may seem ungrateful.

After process time, I listened to a presentation from a professor on gender issues and career counseling. The most interesting part was that she shared her personal experience building a career, becoming a mother and juggling work and life. While I admire her accomplishments, maybe even envy her a bit, I couldn't overlook the sacrifices that she and her family have made because of her career. Her husband worked two hours away for awhile, leaving her in Taipei with two sons. She also spent two years in the U.S. with her sons, while her husband remained in Taiwan. Yes, it was hard for her, but I couldn't help wondering how it affected her sons to be without a father for so long ... and how her husband felt about it.

After lunch, I met my two new Taiwanese friends, and they accompanied me to the Child and Juvenile Adoption Information Center. At first, it seemed like the intermediary didn't have any new information. But then it all started tumbling out. It's crazy how small details -- like my birth mother's birth date -- can fill in blanks in my history, such as how old she was when she had me. I need to time absorb all the new information, but it includes learning I have not one, but two half brothers.

There was also more today: the reflexologist and dinner at a place famous for beef noodles. All good stuff, but my head is full, and I need to just think awhile. I will try to write about the other stuff tomorrow.

My final thought is one of gratitude for the new Taiwanese friends I have met. It helps me feel connected, even though I don't quite fit in. I hope one day to be able to repay their kindness and generosity.

Child and Juvenile Adoption Center

Retail therapy

Comfort food: Beef noodle soup. 

Dear Miss M

This week, you learned how to climb out of your crib. Actually, I'm surprised it took this long. You've been physically able to do it for awhile (throwing your leg over the rail and threatening to escape), but you have a healthy sense of caution that, I think, prevented you from taking the plunge sooner.

I'm thankful for your caution, as I hope it will save us trips to the emergency room as you get older. But I also hope that, as your mother, I can create a strong enough sense of safety and security so that you are not afraid to take risks in life.

Next month, I'm taking one of the biggest risks of my life to date. (Marrying your father and choosing to be your mother were probably the other two, but those are stories for another day.) In the new year, I will travel to Taiwan. I want to learn more about the people and the culture and the food, of course. But also, when I arrive, I will be meeting with a woman from the Child and Juvenile Adoption Center, who I hope may have more information about the circumstances of my adoption.

Choosing to search for information has been so scary, and yet, it is from you that I have gathered the strength to proceed. I've never felt connected to anyone the way I feel with you. Through you, I am learning to love myself. I see myself in you, and I am endeared to you. And I can't help wondering from whom we both inherited our eyes, our hands, our goofiness and our love of music.

I know as you grow up, you will become different from me, despite our shared genetics. It's a certainty not only because I see my strong-willed, independent nature in you, but also because I am determined for your childhood to be different from mine.

Of course, half of your genes are inherited from your father, who also couldn't be more different from me. We opposites attracted and, somehow, we were gifted with you. I hope you will inherit his ability to enjoy life in each moment. And I hope you inherit his ability to love because his unconditional, accepting love transformed my life and created yours.

In a few years, when you're old enough to understand, I hope that your dad and you and me can travel back to Taiwan as a family. I want you to be proud of me and where I came from. I want you to feel secure in your identity. I want you to have roots and, most important, wings.

What's in a name?

Oct. 17, 2012

I was so excited to read about chops and calligraphy. When we go to Taiwan, I definitely want to get a chop made. I would also love to learn how to write my original Chinese name. I don’t even know how to type it.

I have always been OK with my first name. But I’ve always hated my middle name — it seems too stuffy and European for a Taiwanese baby. I can’t imagine why my adoptive parents chose it.

When I married, I considered changing my middle name to my original Chinese surname, Lin. But I chickened out because at that time, and even now, I was not sure what that name meant to me. I couldn’t really feel a connection to it, either.

Given my adoption and history with my adoptive family, you can probably understand why I couldn’t wait to lose my maiden name. It was a name I had no connection to, or so I thought. But I remember being surprised at my emotional reaction seeing my married name on paper. It didn’t look or feel like me, either. Eight years later, I am more comfortable with it.

Some Taiwanese have told me my Chinese name is pretty. It will be neat to explore it further.

Race and ethnicity

Oct. 3, 2012

Reading about yin and yang reminds me of the balance I need to find in my own life. Becoming a mother threw all of my roles out of balance — wife, sister, friend, professional. But the biggest challenge is internal. It’s a lack of balance between my small self and my big self, my emotions and thoughts, my inner child and outer adult. Some days I feel I know neither who I am, nor who I really want to be.

I looked up Richard Lee, and I searched the library online to find a handful of his research papers. So far, the most informative is a 2003 article from the journal The Counseling Psychologist, “The Transracial Adoption Paradox: History, Research, and Counseling Implications of Cultural Socialization.” It is 35 pages, and I’ve only gotten a third the way through it.

“Cultural Socialization in Families with International Adopted Children” (Journal of Family Psychology, 2006, Vo. 20, No. 4) was also interesting and helped me answer a question someone posed Sunday. I can’t remember her exact phrasing, but she essentially asked why I am still interested in Taiwan. The question surprised me. I think I said something about how I wanted to learn about the country of my birth. But it got me thinking, why do I care about it?

A few statements in Lee’s second article grabbed my attention:

1) “McRoy and Zurcher (1983 … observed that White adoptive parents of African American children who were color-blind (i.e. did not perceive racial differences and racism as salient issues) were less likely to live in racially integrated neighborhoods and to make an effort at teaching their adopted child about what it means to grow up as Black in the United States.”

2) “Enculturation refers to both the belief in and practice of promoting ethnicity-specific experiences that encourage the development of a positive ethnic identity, which has been found to serve as a protective factor against racism and discrimination (R. M. Lee, 2005).

3) “… racialization refers to both the belief in and practice of promoting race-specific experiences that help children develop coping skills to protect them from racism and discrimination (Crocker & Major, 1989.)”

The impact of growing up without a positive ethnic or racial identity lingers. It seems quite obvious to see that on paper, and yet I don’t think I grasped until now how learning about the country and culture of my race helps overcome my own negativity toward it. It’s hard to acknowledge the negativity I have felt, off and on — it’s a reminder of racism I’ve personally experienced, and I feel ashamed of my own prejudice. Knowledge of Taiwan is knowledge of myself. Pride in Taiwan is pride in myself.

Once adopted, forever a child

Sept. 19, 2012

I’m trying so hard to keep my mind open to exploring and understanding this different culture, but I feel my brain shutting down. I’m trying to wrap my head around how to understand Taiwanese culture without comparing it to what I know, but I can’t break through. Perhaps it’s mental exhaustion, or emotional wariness, or some combination.

This week has been tough. Throughout my life, there have been people who have hurt me in various ways — directly and indirectly. To get to a safe and stable place today, I have ceased contact with those individuals and people connected with them.

Friday, one of those individuals attempted to email me. Since they did not have any personal contact information for me (by design!), they instead emailed my boss. My boss then printed the email and called me into her office to sit down and discuss what is an immensely personal and private topic.

I am so frustrated and tired and confused. I feel violated. These people who it seems had no care in the past for my physical and emotional well-being now also seem to have no respect for my professional reputation. My mind knows this is an unfair statement — their intentions in the past were good, despite the consequences to me — but my heart feels so hurt and hardened toward them.

This is very difficult, and I have a choice to make. When we travel to Taiwan, do I wish to reach out to them? Or, do I keep that door closed? This individual may be able to answer some of the questions that I have, but at what cost? Which culture’s rules must I follow? An individual-oriented culture that tells me I owe no one anything, that I have a right to personal information and no obligation to provide anything in return? Or a socially-oriented culture that requires a tit for a tat, by whose rules I must earn the privilege to information? Do I really want to open Pandora’s box, anyway?

When we talk about culture and values, all I see are rules that were designed to control a society — to keep the masses in line, to uphold the power of the ruling class. China has one of the longest sustained cultures, and surely that is creditable to its socially-oriented, collectivist values.

The rules of adoption have been set primarily by adoptive parents and adoption agencies. Money always has, and always will, equal power. Even though I am now an adult, when it comes to my adoption, I am permanently treated as a powerless child. Rules prevent me from disturbing the adults who are responsible for my past. “Children should be seen, not heard,” my mother would say. Even today, no one wants to hear me. The rules are designed to prevent me from calling out the grown-ups who were supposed to protect, not harm me. They keep me silent because I am dependent on them for even basic information about the circumstances of my origin. U.S. laws restrict information under the guise of protecting someone else’s privacy. Taiwanese culture restricts my ability to claim by figurative force knowledge that should be mine. Pride prevents me from seeking information from people I would rather pretend did not exist. I am Dorothy, caught in an emotional tornado, wishing to be home. Except I’m not exactly sure where home is.

A new opportunity

Aug. 27, 2012

This year, I renewed my effort to fill the gap in my — and now also my daughter’s — personal history and identity. At first, I sought specific information about the circumstances surrounding my adoption. But as those paths have dried up, I am beginning to realize that what I am really seeking is a sense of belonging, some primal connection. I have long wanted to visit Taiwan, but I have also long been wary of the emotional and economic costs. Perhaps this course will give me the confidence to pursue the answers my soul seeks. Or perhaps, by reinforcing the contrast between the culture of my homeland and the culture of my life, it will solidify my American identity.

I am grateful for the opportunity to find out.

Missing pieces

From the Department of Family Services Children's Division
RE: Birth parent search ordered on February 3, 2012

Italics indicate identifying information retracted to protect the guilty innocent
[Brackets indicate identifying information retracted by DFS per U.S. law]

A girl was born ... in Taiwan on 05/05/1980. She was born to a single, unmarried woman [name retracted], who was residing at [address retracted]. The records indicate that [name retracted] affirmed that a girl was born prior to her marriage with the understanding that the natural father is unknown. A girl weighed 7 pounds when she was born. [Name retracted] gave a girl to an orphanage ... when a girl was three weeks old. ... [Name retracted] relinquished her rights on 06/10/1980. Adoptive parents who had made application with the orphanage prior, were contacted and a girl was adopted by them, in Taiwan, on 07/07/1980. Adoptive mother picked up a girl in Los Angeles at the airport on 08/16/80. On 05/14/1981 the ... Division of Family Services were ordered to do a statutory investigation for the adoption proceedings in the ... Circuit Court (a girl's note: my local social services contact is not sure why it took them so long to approach the U.S. court). There was an initial home study completed by a social worker on 07/01/1980, but an update was requested by the court and submitted on 06/05/1981 (because the first social worker was a family friend, the court would not accept the first home study). The court did not waive the 9-month supervisory period was was requested by the adopted parents' attorney, and the adoption was finalized in the Boone County Circuit Court on 09/27/1982.

Happy birthday to me

May 1, 2012

"Greetings from Taiwan.

"We searched your birth mother’s information from the household system, the household system could only provide the address, and we sent few letter to that address, but there was no response at all.

"In this case, it could be that your birthmother doesn’t live in the address which she registers in the household system. Or she does live there, but she is not ready to contact with us.

"In Taiwan, if the birth parents decided to put their child in adoption, they will choose not to contact in the future. One of the reasons is that they feel guilty about their decision, and they think that they didn’t raise the child which makes them have no right to follow up the child.

"I’m not sure why there have no responses from your birth family, but I do like to know your thoughts about the next step. If you like to quit this reunion or you have any other ideas. Please tell me your view."

Wanted

Jan. 24, 2012

While trolling the interwebs yesterday, I came across the blog of a woman who volunteered at the orphanage where I lived prior to my adoption. She actually used the term "unwanted children," which made my heart and mind churn.

I have spent enough of my life feeling unwanted. Do I need some self-righteous 20-something-year-old girl to confirm that?

Les Misérables

"In my life, there are so many questions and answers that somehow seem wrong." So sings Jean Valjean's adopted daughter, Cosette, in the musical Les Miserables.

I've been listening to Les Mis soundtracks for weeks in preparation for finally seeing the musical live. But it only struck me this morning how much I relate to those specific lyrics.

Cosette continues: "In my life, there are times when I catch in the silence the sigh of a faraway song. And it sings of a world that I long to see. Out of reach, just a whisper away, waiting for me."

In just 10 weeks I will embark for that world that has haunted me all my life. Tickets are booked and paid for. There's no turning back.

It's been several months since I last posted to this blog. In that time, I stopped writing. Spiraled into the second-deepest depression of my life. Found a therapist. Was convinced to go on medication, something I miraculously managed to avoid until this year. Joined a class of (ironically) counselors preparing to travel to Taiwan. Started writing again. And was invited to accompany the shrinks to Taiwan in January.

Over the next few days, I'll post the journal entries I've kept private until now. And I hope to be brave enough to keep posting here as an outlet and a way to share my journey with others who may be going through the same thing. It's been selfish of me to devour other people's stories and be so unwilling to share my own. This blog is my inspiration. Thanks for reading.

Update from Taiwan

"Greetings.

"Through the household system, I received your birth mother’s current information, and I’ve sent a letter to her few days ago. Now all we could do is waiting for her to contact us.

"If there have any news, I’ll update you as possible as I could."

To Whom It May Concern

For as long as I can remember, I have wondered where I came from. My olive skin, almond eyes and black hair never quite fit in — whether at home with my Caucasian adoptive family, or at my rural (read: white) elementary school. That sense of not belonging followed me into my teenage years. I will never forget the man who told me, as I rang up his groceries, “Your people are such hard workers.” It was a harsh reminder that, despite my American citizenship, some people would never see me as one of “theirs.” The irony, of course, is that neither he nor I actually knew who “my people” were.

Over the years, I’ve attempted to sate my appetite for answers through primarily academic methods. I took a History of China course in college. On my own, I’ve read books about the history of Taiwan. I subscribe to a monthly electronic newsletter from the Taiwanese government, and to another from the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute. I’ve followed twin studies (most recently the cover story of National Geographic) that examine the forces of nature and nurture. I’ve purchased adoption-related memoirs and watched documentaries about the subject. A trained journalist, I’ve interviewed and told the stories of other adoptees.

But the more knowledge I gain — about adoption, about my country of origin, about the political and economic forces that likely contributed to my being sent to a foreign country at a mere 3 months of age — the more questions I have.

Last year, I gave birth to a daughter. She filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to that day. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails … they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me.

I know my daughter is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her — traits I now realize I inherited, not learned.

And that brings me to my current quest. To learn from whom we inherited our hands, our eyebrows, our personalities. To discover the boundaries of nature and nurture. To understand, truly, what circumstances brought me to here, to be raised by people with whom I never quite meshed.

There are more practical reasons, as well. The lack of a family history creates a hole in the medical records of not only me, but also my daughter. What genetic landmines lurk around the corner?

I have been in touch with Taiwan’s Child and Juvenile Adoption Center, created in 2005 to assist adoptees in finding answers. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to provide them enough detail to initiate a search for information overseas.

Prior requests for my adoption paperwork have been unsuccessful. My adoptive mother told me, “It’s all Chinese. You couldn’t read it anyway.” The orphanage that facilitated my adoption is more concerned with my spiritual salvation. I would prefer not to have to contact them again. The lawyer who served as my guardian ad litem said the records were lost due to water damage. (I pray he was referring to his own records; not this court’s.)

This letter serves as a formal request for the release of nonidentifying and identifying information, to the extent permitted by law. An original birth certificate with Chinese names would greatly assist the effort by the government office in Taiwan.

Thank you for your consideration.

52 weeks

The past several weeks have flown by. I started writing this entry two weeks ago. And now Miss M's first birthday has already passed. I can't believe my baby girl is a year old.

Exactly one year ago, we were preparing to leave the hospital. It was the calm before chaos. Sleepless days and nights. Learning to breastfeed. Laying next to her, mesmerized by every breath, every jerky move, every blink of her bright eyes.

Fifty-two weeks later, Miss M is a cruising, babbling, silly little girl. If she's not pushing her V-Tech walker, she's dancing to its music. She likes cups and balls and chewing on her Robeez knock-offs (thank goodness I didn't splurge on the real thing!). Her favorite word is "dog." It's the first thing she says when I pick her up in the morning. "Dog?" It's also what she chants when we get home: "Dog? Dog? Dog?" as she high-tails it to his room.

In addition to dog, she regularly says "mama," "dada," "all done," "uh-oh," "ball" and "up." She has also been known to say "open," "hi," and "bye." She will high-five and clap when she feels like it. She signs for "milk" and "all done."

She takes after her mama in that she knows what she wants, and when she wants it (or doesn't). It is both endearing and frustrating. It's cute when she says, "All done," but exacerbating when she says this after only one bite ... of the fifth or sixth food you've tried feeding her for dinner.

It's hard for me to remember life without Miss M. I finally understand why so many women say motherhood makes them a better person, although I am still conflicted by this statement. I love her more than I have ever loved anything in my life. And I love myself since having her. I feel like a better person, and yet I know I'm not a better friend or wife or professional. How can I be? I have less time to devote to my friends, my husband, my job.

Miss M has filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to having her. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails ... they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me. I know she is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her -- traits I now realize I inherited, not learned. It is an amazing connection and awareness that may be hard to understand unless you have lived without it.

I didn't know I was incomplete until she made me whole.

Three months

Today my baby girl is 3 months old. I can't believe it's already 3 months, and yet, I also can't believe it's only been 3 months.

When I was 3 months and 3 days old, I was put on a plane with a stranger to be flown halfway across the world and handed off to another stranger. I don't know how else to say this — it haunts me lately. I look at my baby and I wonder, how could anyone part with something so precious? And then I wonder, how would my baby handle it if she were handed off to strangers tomorrow? Here I have spent three months trying hard to ensure a stable, loving environment for her. I worry about sleep habits and eating routines. I worry about leaving her at daycare so long. Will she remember me? Will she feel abandoned? Does she know who her mommy and daddy are? I want her to feel secure and safe and loved.

A shrink once said to me, upon my sharing I was adopted, "How traumatic that must have been for you." At the time I thought she was full of it. (She was my second-least-favorite of all the therapists I've seen.) I mean, I was just a baby. I turned out fine. How can a baby be traumatized at 3 months? But now I realize new parents are inundated with books that emphasize specific parenting habits from the moment a child is born. Does any of this matter?

It makes me sad to imagine how my baby would feel if I abandoned her tomorrow. I need to believe she loves me as much as I love her. But I guess I don't know. I love my husband dearly, but he doesn't understand why I think about this stuff. Heck, I don't understand why. But I do, on days like these. Maybe one day I will go back to that shrink and she will tell me why these thoughts go and come and go again ... and why I am so desperate for my baby to love me as much as I love her.

There are so many things to love about Miss M. Among them:

• Her crazy kicking legs
• Her deep breaths when she gets excited
• Her coos
• Her sour milky breath
• Her sweet baby smell
• Her chubby hands that look like mine
• Her gummy smiles
• Her expressive eyebrows 
• Her little mouth chewing and sucking on her big fists
• Her pouty mouth, and her little line mouth (aka "the no-more-milk mouth")
• Her neck rolls ... and wrist rolls, and thigh rolls
• The way she smiles after spitting up
• The way she smiles when I wake her
• The way she peers out of the little hole in her carseat cover, like "Where are we going?"
• The way her fists come together but can't grasp anything yet
• The way she gets excited when she realizes I'm getting ready to nurse her
• The most peaceful expression on her face when she sleeps

It makes me want to snuggle her. But that's one thing she's not so great at. She'd rather see what else is going on. It's heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time.

"I'm adopted. Did you know that?"

Of course you didn't. And maybe that Margo Tenenbaum quote is only funny in the way that irony, of the unexpected variety, can be funny. Can't tell you how many times I've almost blurted that out myself. Frequently at most unrelated and/or inappropriate times.

Anyway, I've been thinking about this more often again. Especially as I've been forced to relinquish my body to the needs -- nay demands -- of this living being inside. Try as I may to retain my own identity, this large cantaloupe (according to my WTE app) growing inside me seems to dominate everything. It's the first thing people see when they look at me, and the first thing they bring up when they talk to me. I'm no longer their colleague or boss or friend or daughter-in-law. I'm their pregnant colleague or boss or friend or daughter-in-law.

If I'm being honest, it's the first thing I see about myself, too. And I don't even have to look in the mirror. I'm acutely aware of this baby every time I wake up to pee, struggle to put on my pants, break out in a sweat simply sitting in my office, drag myself up two flights of parking garage stairs ... the list goes on.

How ironic that I spent 30 years developing and becoming comfortable with my identity, and in just eight short months, this baby threatens to hijack it.

I know this sounds melodramatic. The rational side of my brain (dominated by pregnancy hormones lately) says no one can hijack my identity. This baby may redefine it. Even enhance it, if I allow her to. But as much as I yearned for this, fought for this, deliberately embarked on this, I can't say motherhood is a place I'm ready for. Perhaps it's not even the journey to motherhood, but the title, "Mother," which incites such conflicting emotions for me.

All this leads back to a single question that has lingered on my mind as long as I can remember, sometimes receding into the dark crevices of subconsciousness, now bursting to the forefront:

How does a mother relinquish her child to strangers?

More specifically, how did my (birth)mother do it? And why?

On good days -- when I watch my friends with their children, when I allow myself to daydream about the family I'm creating, when I feel the baby move gently inside of me, when I catch my husband looking at me with pure adoration his eyes -- I feel an unnerving, possessive instinct, and I think there's no way I could relinquish this child, my child, to anyone else.

But on dark days -- when it feels like the baby is brutalizing me from the inside out, when I am overwhelmed by everything I'm supposed to be doing to prepare for her arrival, when I am reminded of my own childhood, when I am annoyed by the fact that no one seems to see me for anything besides this baby -- it is easy to imagine how much I might resent my child. How depressed I could easily become if I am not overcome by warm fuzzies the moment she enters the world. How hard motherhood is going to be. How scared and insecure I already am.

And I think: Maybe that's how she felt. Maybe it was easy for her. Maybe it will be harder for me to cling to this child than to let her go.

I must cling to this child. I must love this child. I must embrace this journey to a destination denied to so many; rejected by others.

I must.