Perhaps I should explain.
As I said before in that earlier post, I have a brother and two sisters...and another sibling on the way. Up until a few weeks ago, I was an only adopted child...
It all started a few months back. My left hand would go numb and my breast would swell. After about a month of the swelling not going away I went to see the doctor. She couldn't feel any lumps, but being the thorough doctor that she is, she sent me for an ultrasound anyway. About a month later after putting it off, I went for the test.
I really didn't think anything serious was wrong.
Turns out I was suffering from Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT) better known as clotting in the veins. Apparently, blood clots in ones arms are somewhat unusual (mine was actually in my armpit, hence the swelling of my breast). Anywho, needless to say I ended up in the hospital.
From that point on my health deteriorated. My body just started acting up, and for apparently no damn good reason either. My daily headaches went to daily migraines. My menstrual cramps went from controllable to unbearable. On top of everything else, because of the clot I had to go on blood thinners. Funny thing about me and blood thinners...they take forever to work. Even now they haven't stablized, even though I'm on such a high dose that the pharmacist initially refused to fill my script before double checking if the dosage I was to take was indeed acurate.
And all through this, all the doctors and nurses and specialist kept asking the same irritating question:
"Do you have a history of this in your family?"
That question burned like a slap across the face every time I was asked. It took every ounce of control I had to not lose my damn mind. In fact, to be honest I did kind of lose my mind. To be entirely truthful, I lost my damn mind years ago.
On top of everything else, some of the more "quirky" attributes of my personality became more pronounced. Like listening to the same song on repeat for days at a time, or counting my footsteps and having panic attacks if I accidentally stepped on the cracks of the sidewalk. Turns out on top of everything else I'm OCD and suffer from post traumatic stress disorder.
Not really a surprise. When I confided this to one of my closest friends, her response was a sarcastic "no, really?"
Like I said before, life has always and probably will remain rather messy regardless.
Anywho, the unsurprising revelation about the OCD brought upon another asking of the now dreaded question. My adoptive mother being the wonderfully sympathetic person that she is </sarcasm> decided to make light of the entire situation by cracking an OCD joke, which of course led to the arguments of all arguments which resulted in her making the remark asking me "to stop bullying" her about adopting me, and to "grow up" and "get over it".
When things cooled off (not without almost completely ruining Christmas) and I decided to talk to her again, I demanded that she get me some answers. I was tired of not knowing something so basic as my family's medical history. Those who have the privilege of being raised in their natural families take for granted this basic fundamental right of "knowing" that adoptees simply are not privy to.
My "answers" came in the form of a Vincentian cell phone number. The owner of the cell phone being the woman who gave birth to me. It only took one week to track her down.
Apparently she was eager to reconnect with me, and re-establish a relationship. I was told she was very happy to have the contact.
I was nervous and excited. I had never been angry up until that point at my birth mother for placing me up for adoption. It took a week for me to work up the nerve to call her. My friend came over to hold my hand when I made the call.
The first call was when I found out I had 2 sisters and a brother. I cried too much to ask any medical questions. I found out I had a sister who was a year younger than I was, and another who was 9. I didn't find out my brothers age until I called the second time.
See, up until that moment I assumed I was my natural mothers only child. Being an only child is how I've identified myself my entire life. Of course I knew there was a possibility my birth mother had other children, but I guess I just didn't want to believe it.
I wanted to believe that my mother was so heartbroken after giving me up that she could never have another child after me.
When I realized I had siblings, I immediately had mixed emotions. But these were quickly forgotten in the excitement of having sisters. I always wanted a sister. I begged my adopted mom for one when I was a kid, but it never happened, and now I had two! I just assumed that I must have been my birth mothers oldest child, and all was immediately forgiven. Besides, she wasn't that old when she had me, maybe a year later when she had my sister she had gotten her shit together.
The second time I called, I told myself I was going to get some answers to my medical questions. I realize now that I called because I had to confirm that I was indeed my mothers eldest child.
Of course, I'm not. And as I said before, my birth mother is yet again pregnant and I've been told by her she won't be letting go of this fifth child. So even though she told me that all these years she pined for me, or that when anyone asked she always told them about her fourth child who lived in Canada, I can't help but feel like her words were hollow and empty.
Of her five children, why was I the only one she didn't love enough to keep?
She already had kept one baby, and she had another only a year after me. I wasn't sick as a baby, I had no health problems...
And it sucks, because I now am angry at her. Because I bought into the whole bullshit myth of "she loved you so much that she gave you up..." I built her up in my head as some sort of saint, and now I'm realizing she's only human.
And I hate humans (most of them anyways). I think humans are destructive and cruel and often evil. And as much as I wanna play up the whole "evil white lady abstracting me from my true culture and destiny" card, I can't ignore the glaring fact that it took a Black woman who didn't love me enough to keep me and raise me as part of her family to put me in such a vulnerable position.
Hating white people would be easy. But I don't really hate white people though, even though at times I want to because its an easy hatred that keeps things uncomplicated. Whats hard is hating Black people, specifically Black women. I just can't do it, because hating Black women would mean hating myself, and I can honestly say I don't hate myself.
So I'm left forever in this confusingly tormented state of mind. Its bad, its 7:35am and I haven't gotten any sleep yet. I have class this after noon until the evening, and I have to go because playing hooky will only make shit worse.
I'm really fucking tired of the amount of bullshit life has handed me, and damnit I know that I can't let all this nonsense define me. I know I have to forgive and move on. I will never belong here or there, my history simply starts with me and myself alone. But shit, where do I start? When does life start, when is it time for me to live for myself...not as someones substitute to the real thing, or another's cast off...thrown away.
You know what, damnit...My story starts today. From here on out its about me. Being the best I can be for myself...