Sometimes when relationships aren't healthy it becomes necessary to remove people from your life. I was adopted as an infant. My real parents were married. I was my mother's 3rd child and my father's 2nd child. They were young and poor. They thought giving me up would allow me to have a better life. I was placed with a couple who were old enough to be my grandparents. My real parents weren't allowed to know who adopted me. All adoptions were closed back then. My adopters were abusive. My adoptive father and an adoptive uncle were pedophiles. My adoptive mother refused to protect me. By the time I reached my teens I was a mess. I longed to find my real parents which I managed to do when I was 16. I essentially rejoined my real family at that time. I even changed my name back to my real dad's surname. Eventually I cut off my adoptive family. I have no regrets about doing so. My real parents regret giving me up especially after finding out what happened to me in the adoptive home. Sadly, the 4 kids I knew growing up who were adopted were all abused as well. One of those kids self-destructed and eventually died of a drug overdose. Adoption has a real dark side that many people don't know about. For further insight I recommend the book The Primal Wound by Dr. Nancy Verrier.

For a period of time I was almost angry with my adoptive parents. I was sort of resentful that they took me from where I was, but as I recently found out the truth can be ugly. I was always told that my parents wanted me and were too poor to care for me, but that's not really quite it. They were very very poor yes, but so is the entire city of Vladivostok. I was also never told as a kid that my father is confirmed dead. He died shortly before I was born. I had a brother who was deathly ill. My mother never showed up in court and they couldn't find her. My babushka made a living selling what she found in the garbage. I thought that my parents had taken me away from my family as a kid, but I really had nothing. I had a mentally unstable babushka who sold actual trash for a living and practically lived in a dump. I had a dead father and a mother who was too concerned taking care of her son and probably wanted no part of the adoption process. I had nothing there worth staying for and I'd have become a ward of the state most likely even if my mother had chose to keep me.

What is it like? It's really hard. It's hard to come to terms with the fact that you don't share genetics with the ones who feed you and take care of you. For a period of time I called my birth parents my "real parents", but that's not true. Blood doesn't mean family. It's hard to process that stuff from a young age. I have hard time processing I didn't know most of the story until I was this old. It's hard to accept. I have a lot of trust issues and abandonment issues to work on and I think they'll always be there even if it gets better. I used to be mad at my parents and even occasionally sort of violent I remember. I was and am still sort of a mess, but it gets better when you realize they aren't bad. They want the best for you just like any parents blood or not and they love you more than anyone.

Gut wrenching to say the least. I was 19 years old, got pregnant by a guy on our second date. Now it's called date rape. Back then, almost 30 years ago, saying no didn't matter much. He was my first. We broke up after couple more dates because I was a “prude”

Found out on my second trimester. My menstrual cycle had always been very irregular. When my mom and I found out, I left to another city where there was a home for unwed mothers. It was silently decided the baby would be given up for adoption.

I decided to go through a private adoption where I can choose the parents. I looked through pictures after pictures and read stories after stories of couples then decided on an Asian couple since I am also Asian. I thought it would be less difficult on the child.

Everyday I made sure I didn't get attached to the baby, everyday I spoke with the adoptive mother hoping the baby would get used to her voice. I made plans for after birth, going back to school getting on with my life.

I felt great about the choices I made. I wasn't going to regret any of it since I was making the best decision for the baby and I.

Then she was born, my beautiful Monica. D, the adoptive mother was in the birthing room along with G, the adoptive father. G had cut the cord and when the doctor handed the baby to me I said to hand the baby to D. I wanted her to be the first one to hold her. D held her and showed the baby to me. She was beautiful.

Due to some complications I was to stay in the hospital for few more days. Adoption lawyer came to see me and I asked her if the baby could stay with me for one more day. Then I saw D through the the crack of the door.

She literally crumbled to the floor. I could see the fear in her eyes. I quickly told the lawyer it would not be necessary. I didn't want to hurt D. Monica was her baby her child. Monica and D left. I saw them when I was discharged from the hospital. She thanked me over and over and wished me well. We had become really good friends, it helped that I genuinely like them. We parted ways and I came back home. I hadn't shed a single tear.

Then it all changed. In the middle of the night when everyone was sleeping I would quietly get out of bed to open the box that contained Monica's baby clothes she wore at the hospital. I could still smell her. I would cry, my throat burned from trying not to make any noise. I would fist my chest hard over and over again. Some nights it felt like I could still feel her inside me. For years and years I would cry everytime I saw a baby.

I don't regret the decision. I met Monica when she turned 18 thanks to D. She had turned into a beautiful smart young lady. I didn't cry when I met her. Didn't want to seem emotional nor expect her to call me mom. I acted very casual, asked her about school and made small talk and came home.

On the way home I bawled and screamed while my husband drove. My heart was tearing into pieces.

What did it feel like giving her for adoption? For almost 30 years, there isn't a single day I don't think about her. Everyday still I check her Facebook page, I do not leave any messages but I look at her pictures and read her posts. Everyday I whisper “I am sorry” looking at her picture.

EDIT: Thank you everyone for your kind words. I have since become a mother of two and and a wife to a loving husband. Although I don't regret the decision I made then, if I knew then what I know now I would have raised her on my own. I was scared young woman who thought I couldn't do it.

I am one of the few very lucky ones. The child I gave up grew up in a family full of love and she has blossomed into a beautiful intelligent woman and I have been able to witness it. She doesn't hate me, or a least I hope she doesn't.

Once again, thank you.

Don’t care. She met me once and decided she didn’t have a “connection”. She never told me that. I spent years thinking it was just painful for her, which I am sure it was, but I JUST found out she decided from the get go that she doesn’t want to ever know me. I decided she is startlingly lacking in compassion and cowardly and not the kind of person with whom I would like as an acquaintance, even. Why would I want to know her? She may be genetically related to me, but she is no family. I know my dad, sister, brother, and they are all kind and warm. (My parents had married and then divorced 20 years later). They have all accepted me wholeheartedly and we are close, although no one is perfect. There is no fairy tale ending in life. I suspect she is afraid that my sister will feel betrayed if she tries to know me because they have had a difficult relationship, but that is nonsense. My sister is very kind and wishes we knew each other. My mother also has apparently been very spoiled and the world kind of centered around her as a child. When I recently heard the whole story of why I don’t hear from her at all, because she just had no maternal feelings for me and did not want to lead me on, it made me feel very embarrassed and actually insulted. Had I known from day one, I never would have tried to contact her again. When someone doesn’t value anything about me, there is absolutely nothing in it for me. She met me for about three hours, once. I was young and terrified to contact her and she has had no compassion for the confused, 29 year old that I was, just recently divorced and trying to find my way. Now, at the time, it was devastating. You spend your whole life unrealistically thinking they rejected you, and then it becomes true. All I can say is, it hurts. A lot. Yet later, if you can process, you realize that you have nothing to gain by a relationship. The only one who lost something is my mother, because I sincerely wanted to know her and i would have been a kindhearted friend, at least. I think about how she will give her son in-law a chance who was a complete stranger and not even very friendly toward her, but not even her own daughter. (!) Tragic? Not really. Not for me.

When I was two years of age, I was adopted by my third father, and my third mother.

My biological mother was very young, and she temporarily stayed in France (she is Dutch), to learn the french language, minding he children of a couple living in Paris.

There she met my biological father, an Algerian man, who had come to France to execute terrorist attacks, because Algeria was a colony of France, and they wanted independence.

My mother was of Jewish descent, and het parents were outraged, that their daughter was pregnant from a arab terrorist.

So, when she returned to the Netherlands, I was adopted several times. A psychiatrist once told me, that I was so severely damaged as a baby, by all the adoptions, and disappearing biological, and adoptive parents, that I would never be able to take care of myself, for as long as I lived.

I have been staying in mental institutions for years. Because of all the changes in my life, all the fathers, and mothers, all the attachment and detachment, to all those people and all those institutions I stayed in, my life is a mess.

When I was twelve, my father died, and my mother got married to another guy. He was my fourth father, and we hated each others guts.

If you consider putting your child up for adoption, very, very carafully weigh all the other options first!

I have been an outsider looking in, all my life, without a place of my own, and without people, who care.

My biological mother should have really done something to help me:

Have an abortion. Then there would be no need for me to lead this useless life, that is only a waste of time and energy.

Take good care of your children. Do not leave them in the forest, and make off without them, like in the terrible fairy tail of Hansel and Grettle!

Greetings,

Robert.

This was something that, as a adoptive mom, I prepared and steeled myself for from the day we brought our infant daughter home from the hospital, I KNEW the day would come that she, in a fit of childish petulance or teenage rebellion, would look at me and spit something to the effect of, ‘I don’t need to listen to you; you’re not my REAL mom” or “I wish I could go live with my REAL mom”.

I went years waiting for it,. I told my then husband, my mom, several friends that I knew it was coming. I glibly and blithely believed that, by anticipating it, I had stolen the power away.

But you know what … when it did come, it still hurt like hell. I kept it together, refused to let her see how deeply she’d wounded me (since that what she wanted in the moment) and responded with something like, “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way honey but I still love you.” And then I beat a hasty retreat to the privacy of my bathroom before she could see me cry.

That was years ago. My daughter is now 19 and we could not be closer.

I was born in June of 1956, brought home from the hospital at the ripe old age of 3 days by my “real parents,” and had the final papers signed on Halloween day of that same year. In fact we always celebrated that day with as much jay as we did my actual birthday. The people that gave me up were nothing more than a sperm donor and a gestational unit. I never had a desire or need to look for either of them. “Real parents” are the ones that love you, care for you and stand by you no matter what. To treat them as anything different and to reject them would IMHO show a true lack of love and respect on my part.

I’m 11 years old and I’m adopted I got adopted August 31 and I feel like I don’t need find them because really they mean nothing nothing to me so why now build a relationship when you could’ve done that 11 years ago and I don’t call the adoptive parents I call them my real parents cause they been there since day one they got me out the hospital at 3 days old and my sister actually got put in the system but the but me and my sister are birth sisters she still communicates with them I don’t need too because it’s too late now and I love my mama and daddy so much I wouldn’t trade them for the world and our grandmama is the woman mom so my sister is living with her granddaddy and and her grandmother so my answer is ABSOLUTELY NOT

Just because a child wants to find out where they came from that does not mean they have “rejected” their adoptive parents. I loved my adopted mother, and my adoptive step father very much but I was curious about my birth family. Found out that while I loved my brothers, didn’t really feel much at all for my birth mother. My home address was always my adopted parents home when I was in the army and in school, adopted parents always introduced as my mom and dad, birth mother was always referred to by her first name. I also found out what illnesses (including mental illnesses) ran in the family. And that’s what I consider the most important thing that came out of the experience.

My real mom was the woman who was their when I cried at night, who held me when I was sick, and bandaged my skinned knees, held my hand when I learned to skate, held the bike when I learned to ride, laughed at my corny jokes, celebrated my firsts and my accomplishments, sympathized with my disappointments and broken hearts, helped my up when I was down, and so on. and so on. NOT the woman whose only connection to me was giving birth.

I felt like I was broken. That I was bad. That I was and would never be [fill-in-the-blank] “enough” to be part of a “real” family.

I entered the foster care system with several strikes against me. I was already ten years old (past the prime adoption age for foster children). I came from an extremely abusive home, so I guess you can say that was the “first” rejection, by my biological mother and her abusive husband. The last time I saw my childhood home was when I was running from it, covered in blood, trying to hold my face together in my hands.

The first foster home I was in, I was told, wanted to adopt “a little girl.” But it soon became clear I was not “the little girl” they had in mind. I got fantastic grades. I laid low. I was respectful and polite. I thought I was doing okay. But I just could not force the words “Mom” or “Dad” out of my mouth. To do so, to me, meant I was handing my life over to them to do with what they wanted after the social workers’ (somewhat) watchful eyes were gone. No way.

I also didn’t want to wear skirts or dresses “like a nice young lady” because I did not feel safe. When I had done so before, it made it easier for my stepfather to put his hands where they didn’t belong. One day I asked a friend of mine if it hurt when her daddy “did that” to her. She and her mother took me to my biological mother and told them what I just said. They believed me. She faked horror in her voice at the time, knowing that’s how she “should” react. But in reality, nothing changed. And it got worse. And she knew. Wearing pants or jeans was at least some level of protection, but my foster parents saw it as defiance of how they wanted me to dress.

I didn’t know how to articulate any of these feelings to my first pre-adoptive home back then—I would have to endure two more “disrupted adoptions” before I finally “aged out” of the system and that part of my life mercifully came to an end. But I guess they felt I was rejecting them in spite of their efforts. The crack in our relationship widened into a canyon over the course of three years. Then came the morning I awoke to the sound of my clothes and my beloved books being thrown into garbage bags. I was told to get dressed, that I was going back to “the Home.” It wasn’t open when we got there that early May morning, so they put me, and the garbage bags, on the front steps. They gave me an awkward hug, said “good luck”, and I never saw them again.

I recently began considering taking in a foster child and went to an “orientation.” I was heartened to hear that, from the get-go, social workers today tell prospective foster/adoptive parents that traumatized children will “test” them—not because they don’t care about the foster parents, but to see if they will be hit, or starved, or raped, because that is what they expect from the adults in their lives. And so this push-pull becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy, over-and-over, with every subsequent placement. So I am glad that someone, somewhere eventually decided to dispense with the Annie/Daddy Warbucks fantasy and tell the truth. It’s an ugly truth. No one wants to believe people do these things to children, but children don’t end up in foster care because they got lost on their way to Disney-world.

And still, knowing all of these things, even after all these years, I feel broken.

It was the hardest day of my life. My entire pregnancy, I had planned to keep my baby boy. I wasn’t with his biological father any longer, but thought we could remain civil and work through raising this precious child.

He (the ex) was always pretty belligerent and aggressive to me, but in the last couple months of pregnancy he became much worse and I began to worry about what my child’s future would look like with this influence.

That’s when I started considering adoption. Ultimately, I had decided on an open adoption. I was able to pick his parents. I met them and actually, physically handed him over to them. The most intensely difficult day of my life and not a memory easily forgotten.

I always felt that I had made the best decision for my son, but sometimes doubt and guilt would sneak in and I would question whether I had underestimated myself and my ability to raise him. I later found out his biological father was battling a meth-amphetamine addiction and in fact, had spent some time in prison for related charges. Hearing this, while unfortunate, confirmed that I had made the best, most loving decision for my circumstances.

Happy ending: This happened 24 years ago. A little over a year ago, I was able to reunite with my son. He is a beautiful young man with a heart for God, a great sense of humor and a little sass. He was raised by wonderful people and he loves them very much. You can’t know how happy and at peace that makes me. I am not his mom, but I am his friend and that is enough..more than I deserve. I’m so thankful.

EDIT: Wow! I am overwhelmed by all of the upvotes and positive comments you have offered. Life is still good with my son. I introduced him to a wonderful girl that was my student worker and now they are married! He even included me in the wedding photos! Thank you for all of the love! Be blessed!

Absolutely traumatising. I'm accepting that I was rejected by my adoptive parents and that it's not my fault, I did nothing wrong. They are the ones who shouldn't have adopted. It's sad to look back now and as started to track down the information of how I came to be adopted that before my current adopted parents got me that I was with another family who were trying to adopt me but for various reasons their application was rejected. I was with that first family for 2 years. I can't help but think that I would have been better off with them, I would have been better off with 99 percent of the families seeking to adopt I was just that unlucky 1%. The family that officially adopted me when I was 2 years old were not people that should have adopted. The better life that usually people who adopt want to provide was non existent. I lived on the streets at 11. Never managed a proper education or any sort of normal life until I had my own children. Friendships/relationships I doubt I'll ever wrap my head around. Damaged goods would be an understatement. Iv only recently realised I do not in any way have to be grateful to have been adopted. There is no reason why I should have been grateful for the people that adopted me and rejected me. I'm 30, it took too many years to finally come to accept that.

We adopted our son from foster care when he was 9. He came in the door asking to see his biological brothers and sisters. I told him that being adopted myself, I could certainly understand the pull to biological family, but that at his age, his influences needed to be protected. If his siblings could be positive influences, I had no problem with it, but if not…. Each month his adoption worked came to check on him, let us know the next steps and the progress of his adoption. Each month, she would tell him the latest info on his siblings…. this one was in jail, that one ran away, another one was pregnant (at 14). He would just look at me like “oh well, I guess not this this month, maybe next month… He did finally sneak on Facebook and find them when he was 16 and they would come to our home in the middle of the night and sneak him out his window to go for visits with them. They had no idea they were breaking the law. We had always planned to find them and invite them to his 18th birthday party and fold them into the family, so thanks to Mr. Impatient, that had to happen a few years early. Within two weeks of meeting them, his two older sisters starting calling me mom and their kids (6 between them) called us their grandparents. None of them had ever had anyone teach them how to be successful in life, so we have taken on that challenge too. Luckily they are better students than my son. lol

Not all adoptee/birthparent reunions are lifetime movie fodder. I always said I would not search because my birth mother probably had a family that knew nothing about me and it would disrupt her life. My real parents (the ones who adopted and raised me) both were dead by the time I was 21. After years and years of people telling me I “should” search, and that she (BM) would want to know I was ok, I finally decided to search in order to get health info for my kids and grandkids.
I found my birth mother when I was 41. When I first spoke with her (by phone) and was trying to determine if she was really my BM, I told her my date of birth. Her response was “That sounds like it was about right, I don’t remember the exact date.” Even after meeting me and seeing how much I looked like her, she wanted proof. Her husband kept saying “Rose, she looks just like you did at that age.” Later she said several very mean things to me that showed me just how much she had wanted rid of me.
Now, nearly 20 years later, we have very little contact save an occasional few sentences on Facebook messenger.
I kind of wish I’d never searched, she never would give me any health history anyway.

As another adopted child, I am going to add my two cents. I was with my adoptive parents from 18 days on (I was a child whose biological mother intended to put baby up as I was unplanned and, quite frankly, unwanted). It was never a secret that I was adopted and I would like to think that I bonded with my parents quickly. I have been told it took exactly 28 days to start showing recognition of my new family and quickly adjusted to my life as their child.

Although I was lucky enough to have met my biological mother as an adult, she never replaced the spot I have in my heart for my parents. Because the people who raised me are and forever more will be my parents. They are the people I call when I need to share my joys and sadness. They are the ones that I invite for holidays (in all farness, my biological parents are both deceased now). And, when I talk about my family, it is never my biological family vs. my adopted family. They are ALL my family (which also includes those people I gained via marriage - another sensitive subject area)!

So, do you bond with the adopted child? I would say, if you have a heart and love in that heart, of course you do! They are yours! Not once have I ever thought that my parents loved me any less because we don’t share a large amount of DNA material (we do share DNA… but only found that out after the advent of AncestryDNA). Are there people out there that don’t bond with their adoptive children? Yes. Just as there are people out there that don’t bond with their biological children. Giving birth doesn’t make you automatically fall in love with your baby, sadly. But not giving birth to them doesn’t mean you don’t automatically fall in love with them, either!

I was adopted as a baby. I think I was 7 or 8 months old. I came from an Asian country…to Asian parents. So no one ever thinks I was adopted. I always get a giggle when people say I look more like my Dad. It’s only because our ancestors are from the same region in our country. Then again, all Asians look alike, right? Lol. My parents probably could’ve gotten away with never telling me since I look so much like them, but they’re pretty cool people.

I have known from a young age that I was adopted. There was never any reason to hide it from me. I was the only child and given many opportunities that I probably wouldn’t have had if I had grown up in my home country. I never felt unloved or that I didn’t belong. I had your typical drama involved in being a kid and growing up, but my parents are my parents. They stepped in when my biological parents couldn’t.

However, there are two sides to every story, no?

Five years ago, my parents were getting ready to move back to the US from our home country. I planned a visit to see them and other family before the big move. It was on that trip that I met my biological mother. My adoptive parents (mom) had done all the footwork locating her for me. We picked her up at a train station - the instant recognition/bond was…I don’t even know how to explain it. We knew who the other was without even saying a word. Didn’t even need a “hello”.

I learned that she was in college when she found out she was five months pregnant with me, a product of a short relationship she was in. She never informed my father. Her father (my grandfather) told her she couldn’t keep me and sent her away to live in another city with my aunt until she was ready to give birth. No one ever knew about me except her family.

I always wanted siblings and I was anxious to see if I had any. She ended up marrying a man who had 2 children from a previous relationship. Giving me up had been too painful so she decided to raise his kids rather than have any more of her own. At first I felt special knowing that I was her one and only. Her husband never knew about me (since I was born many years before they met) and she didn’t know how to bring it up with him after all these years. No big deal. My intention of meeting her was not to disrupt her life and cause unnecessary drama. However, as time has passed, I sometimes get jealous of the kids, especially her son, who got to grow up with her as a mom. A little part of me stings from the “rejection” from my biological mom for things that were out of her control. It’s not something I hold against her. It’s not her fault. She was young (20) when she had me.

My adoptive parents are great. I love them and love the life they have provided for me. They even tell me that i have three parents after we met my biological mom. We still keep in touch with her. In fact, my parents recently organized a trip to the motherland to visit her as she is battling stage 4 cancer and they wanted me to have time to spend with her in case things take a turn for the worse.

I know I lucked out in the adoption lottery. I wouldn’t trade my adoption experience for anything.

Edit: My birth mother lost her battle to cancer on November 9, 2019. I am so grateful I had a chance to meet her and be part of her life and have her part of mine, even if only for a short time.

This happened to me. When I was 17 my younger sisters (full blood) found me accidentally by the grace of god. I was placed in a foster home at birth (mother 16, father 19) until paternity was established. At 2 weeks old I went “missing” from foster home, per state of Ohio government records. I ended up being “adopted” by my adoptive parents at 6 mos old. Turns out they had been called to pick me up from foster home and not to announce my birth in the local papers etc. All the while my parents were told I was kidnapped and to get on with their lives. Mind you this transpired in ‘76 while my parents were teenagers. They went on to marry and had 4 more children, never loosing faith they would one day find me.
To say I’m furious is an understatement!! The parents I grew up with claim to have had no idea this “adoption” was illegal and completely fraudulent, “we just wanted you, your ours”. BS I am not theirs, I am not a belonging! I have a family! I was literally kidnapped! The entire state of Ohio, judges and those responsible should be held accountable and prosecuted! The state of Ohio has issued me a verbal apology and the only explanation I’ve ever been given was this was a GRAY MARKET ADOPTION (not black). When asking for clarification as to what that meant I was told “I was not adoptable by law however money did exchange hands to make this “problem go away” and I was quietly given to my “adoptive parents” and my illegal adoption was pushed thru the courts very quickly by those involved and signed off on with money being given to them to raise me”! WHAT?? This issue has followed me, my husband and children around my entire life. First I couldn’t get my drivers license bc I did not have a valid (issued within 6 mos of birth) birth certificate, nope I have a registration of live birth issued close to 12mos old. Then can’t get a passport to travel. The state of Ohio has since released to me my original birth certificate which came with a entire slew of other issues, problems. Real name and real ss number. I was kidnapped as baby, renamed and issued new name and ss #. So now have to as a teenager decide which name etc I’m going to validate and go by legally in the court system.
The older I’ve gotten the angrier and more bitter I’ve become. This happening is completely unacceptable!! There is no statue of limitations on prosecution for kidnapping. The mental anguish and pain this has caused is inexcusable!!

To answer your ? BEYOND ANGRY!! Words can not justify the feelings involved!!

My son is adopted. When he was two and a half days old, we brought him home from the hospital. I often would say, “when I had you… “, and he’d look at me pointedly and say,”mom…” as if i’d forgotten something really significant. For me, I might as well have given birth to him. He’s my child, no if’s, ands, or buts!

When my son got older, his then girlfriend and I helped him search for his biological mother. We located her, and he made contact and set up a meeting. That was a bit difficult for me. Feelings of insecurity played with my emotions for a while, but I got past that. He sees her occasionally and I’ve had contact with her on social media. I’m incredibly grateful to her for giving birth to my son.

In the final analysis, for me (and for his father), our child being adopted quite simply means the absence of morning sickness and labor pains, and honestly, I’m just fine with that!

Addendum:

After reading Jennifer Rysdam’s answer, I have to agree, there are certainly no guarantees. My son’s biological mother is, according to him, most likely an alcoholic. He is an alcoholic. He is also a victim of the opioid epidemic, and sadly, is a heroin addict as well. He, and we, have been on an horrific rollercoaster ride over the years because of his addictions. This hasn’t made us love him any less. He is currently in recovery and we are very grateful and cautiously optimistic for his future, although we do know he’s at great risk for relapse as he has, many times in the past. We will continue to love him dearly, no matter what.

Adoptees often engage in attachment regulating behavior which is to push away and pull back the emotional distance with people. Its an unconscious way to feel safe. Adoption is trauma in the context of attachment. Thats going to result in behaviors that drive away love objects that may feel like a threat. When adoptees reach the age of 17 they are preparing to leave the nest. This transition can be terrifying since it feels like being abandoned again so they ac as if the parents are the worst thing that ever happened to tear themselves away. Rejection can also be testing the attachment to see if the parents really keep them. Anger to the birth mother who gave the child away is often transferred to the adoptive mother as anger. The adoptive parents dont know how to parent a traumatized child and miss the signals to attach.

Infants only a few days old can record long term memories. “Infants do not think but they do process emotions and long term memories are stored as affective schemas” (Geansbauer, 2002). An infant separated from its first mother will record a memory of that event. Memories of this nature are called preverbal memory representations and they have a unique quality that must be understood by adoptive parents. “Infant memories are recalled in adulthood the same way they were recorded at the time they occurred. It is difficult possibly impossible for children to map newly acquired verbal skills on to existing preverbal memory representations” (Richardson, R., & Hayne, H. 2007). An older adoptee who recalls an emotional memory will experience it the same way it was felt as an infant. Adoptees can have troubling memories that they cannot identify in words. This means that they cannot understand what they are feeling and without a vocabulary they cannot even ask for help. This leads to a cognitive /emotional disconnection. “Children fail to translate their preverbal memories into language”(Simcock, Hayne, 2002).

Oh good heavens yes. I recently worked with a young gentleman who had been adopted by a humble and loving family at a very young age. The time came when he was able to obtain the information on his birth mother, and she him, and so they met. He was in her company for only about 20 minutes when she asked him for money so she could buy cigarettes. It turns out his birth mother was and still is a junky, alcoholic, prostituting POS, and she is ALWAYS coming after him for money, he can’t get away from her and he can’t hide from her either because he made the mistake of giving her his address and other contact details. What a mucking fess. People need to be careful what they wish/ask for!!!

Original question: What does it feel like to give up your child for adoption?

It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made.

This is long, and I apologize, but every part of it is important.

When I was 19, I thought I had the flu. It wouldn’t go away and the nausea was near constant. My period was late too, but it had always been irregular, and missing a couple of months wasn’t unusual. My boyfriend at the time and I were using condoms, so surely I couldn’t be pregnant.

When I started noticing my pants no longer fit properly, the “flu” hadn’t gone away and my period hadn’t arrived after nearly three months, it was time to take a test. My boyfriend and I went out and bought a cheap pregnancy test, the kind that come two to a box. The first was positive. Well that was just a cheap test, so surely it wasn’t accurate. I took the second test. Also positive. Still a cheap test, let's go out and get a better one. He picked the most expensive digital test on the shelf and I took it. Pregnant. We needed a test from a doctor! Off to planned parenthood we went, and got another positive test. Based on my last period abortion wasn’t an option, I was already 12 weeks, past the limit for elective abortion in my state. We talked about adoption, I learned about open adoption, and got some referrals to adoption websites and resources for birthmothers. I got a referral for prenatal care closer to my home.

The day of the first appointment, my ex went with me. He was still sure this was all a mistake, and I wasn’t *really* pregnant. I had bloodwork done and went in for the ultrasound. He sat at my head, his hands in his pockets, and when the ultrasound technician gleefully announced, “There he is, he’s looking at us!” There was a mumbled “Oh shit” from beside my head. This was real.

I found out at the appointment that I was 11 weeks pregnant. I still had one week to get an abortion if I wanted one. I’d already decided against it, I didn’t have the money to pay for it, and if I chose to carry him to term it wouldn’t cause problems with my employment, I was no longer in school, and he suggested we move in together if my mother decided to kick me out. I didn’t *need* one in my specific circumstances. He asked me to marry him on the way back from the doctor’s appointment. I said no. I told him just getting pregnant wasn’t a reason to go into marriage, and it was something we could do later if we stayed together and decided to.

When we got back to his mother’s house, I called my mother. The phone call was simple. “Mom, I’m pregnant. I’m with Rick (not his real name) at his house, and I’ll come home after you’ve had some time to calm down.” I then hung up the phone on my screaming, crying mother. She’d told me she was too young to be a grandmother.

Three days later I called her again. We were able to sit down and have a rational conversation about the process. Yes we’d been using protection. No, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do yet, but we discussed my thoughts on the options. I was open to adoption, but wanted an open adoption because I wanted to get to know my child and the parents I’d be giving him to. I wanted to start looking at dear birthmother letters right away because I wanted to have time to get to know them before the birth. I was still considering keeping him, but hadn’t decided if I’d stay with the father.

Through all of this, the father made his opinion clear. He wanted me to have an abortion. If I wasn’t willing to have an abortion, he fully supported adoption since he didn’t want to be saddled with child support and it didn’t look like we’d stay together much longer.

When I got home to my mother’s house, she’d gone to several of the dear birthmother sites and had selected some families for me to look through. One in particular was her favorite. “They have big dogs, and I know how much you love dogs and thought you might like the baby to grow up with some, and they’ve already got a little girl they adopted who has contact with her birthmother. You’ve just got to see her, she looks like such a little elf!”

I agreed, that particular family sounded WONDERFUL. Their letter talked about their relationship with their daughter’s birthmother, just the kind of relationship I wanted with my son’s adoptive family. The main picture on their page was a family photo, mom, dad, their adopted daughter, an elderly fluffy black dog, and an absolute GIANT of a black lab. The rest of the pictures on their profile were clearly taken in a park. Mom and daughter, dad and daughter, mom, dad and daughter. Their daughter was included in every single one, which was different from the other profiles I saw which mentioned children but didn’t show any of them. I felt like I was seeing how much these people loved their adopted daughter through these pictures. I saved the letter into the “maybe” pile, and kept looking.

There was a family living in Hawaii who owned a farm and detailed the animals they had and what their lives were like. They had attached stunning pictures of their farm, the beach, the mountains. They went into the Maybe pile.

There was a family of a stay at home mother and police officer father. I thought of my child having to deal with the news at 5, 10, 15 years old that their father was killed in the line of duty. That family went into the “no” pile.

There was an elderly couple who had decided to adopt after their adult children had all left the nest. They were old, she looked frail. I imagined what kind of health they’d be in when my child turned 10, 15, 18. That family went into the no pile.

There was a lesbian couple that was absolutely lovely. I read that letter over and over, I almost put them in the maybe pile, but they lived in a conservative state that while allowing adoptions by gay couples didn’t have much else in the way of rights available. It was a hard choice, but considering the area they were from, and the hardship of a gay family fitting in, that family went into the no pile.

There was a couple where the mother was a special education teacher and the father was in some sort of finance. They seemed sweet, excited at the possibility of adopting a child, and their profile made them seem lovely. They went into the maybe file.

There was a couple who was clearly well off, their photos taken in their immaculate home, with their tiny teacup poodle with pink bows in its ears. I imagined what it would be like for my child to track mud onto that white carpet and the white couch. They didn’t look like the kind of people to let my child play in the mud and dirt like a normal child. They went into the no pile.

This process went on for WEEKS. I constantly revisited my maybe pile, adding and removing couples, re-reading letters. Finally when I was fifteen weeks pregnant, I sent my first letters. I don’t remember the exact wording now, but I introduced myself, gave my age, and announced to the three couples I’d chosen (the ones mentioned above) that I was 15 weeks pregnant and looking for a family to adopt my child. I told them a little about myself, my education, my goals. And then I waited.

Of the three couples I contacted, the family with the farm in Hawaii never responded back. They were removed from the maybe pile, leaving the other two. Both responded excitedly, telling me more about themselves and the reasons they were looking to adopt. I sent another letter, this one with a list of questions attached. I thought long and hard over these. The final, and most important question in the list was “I’m currently healthy, and the pregnancy is uncomplicated, but if something were to go wrong, would you still want to continue the adoption process?” Again, I waited.

The couple with the special education teacher responded with a list of questions of their own. What was my favorite color? What was my favorite class in school? What kind of hobbies did I like? They were the questions one would ask a 12 year old child, not a 19 year old young woman considering giving them her child. The answer to the last question cinched it for me. “We would not continue the adoption if there was something wrong with the baby, since as a special education teacher, I work with those kinds of children all day at work, and don’t want to have to come home to another one. Besides, there are institutions for children like that.” I was absolutely horrified. The family went directly into the no pile.

By this time, there was one family left. The one with the big dogs and the elfish little girl. All my hopes were hung on this family. If their answers weren’t satisfactory, I’d have to start over from scratch. The letter arrived in my email box three days later. There were questions attached for me, but they were things like “What kind of activities would you like your child to participate in?” “Is there anything about your culture or family history that you’d like your child to know?” And then the answer I was waiting for. It was long, and I don’t remember the exact wording, but I’ll paraphrase as best I can from what I remember. “When I saw this question, I originally was going to say no, that I didn’t think I could handle a situation like that. I went to bed that night and my husband and I talked it over when it hit me. If I was pregnant, and something like that happened, I would give birth to and love that child just as much regardless. The only difference between these two situations is who carries the child. Keeping that in mind, the only answer I can give is that yes, we would continue the adoption, and we would love that child just as much no matter what the circumstances.” When I read that I cried. This was the family. They were perfect. We exchanged numbers and talked on the phone for the first time later that evening.

We talked over the phone, through email, and through chat for weeks after that. Paperwork started coming in from the adoption agency, explaining the process, requesting medical histories on my family and the father’s family. We’d broken up by this point but I invited him over and we spent hours sitting in my living room going over the answers to those questions while he paced back and forth nervously. He told me his mother wanted me to give the baby to her to raise. His mother and grandmother were angry with me for considering adoption. I didn’t care.

A few months later, Ashley (not her real name) seemed nervous on a phone call. We’d been calling back and forth, talking for hours, but she had a concern. She didn’t want me to think I was being bullied into giving her my child. She suggested that she wouldn’t call me anymore. When I was ready, and had decided, I could call her. Until then, they would wait.

I still hadn’t decided not to keep my son. It was a reasonable request. I missed our conversations, but I took the time to think it over long and hard. We knew I was having a boy by this time. I’d sent them the ultrasound photos and video. I tried to imagine what life would be like for my son with them. I imagined what it would be like with me. I thought of what opportunities he’d have with them that I couldn’t give him. Eventually, after nearly a month, I made my decision. They were getting the baby. It was nearly Christmas at this point. I thought that call would be the most wonderful Christmas present I could give them. I wanted to wait and call them on Christmas day. It was excruciating. Eventually the fear that they’d find another baby to adopt took over and I couldn’t wait. Three days before Christmas I called. They weren’t home so I left a message. “I’ve decided to give you my son. Please call me back.” More waiting. It was hours before they got home from shopping and got my message. The call finally came. We screamed with joy, we cried, we laughed. It was beautiful.

Things picked up then. More paperwork. Meetings with lawyers. Meetings with the adoption representatives. Since they were out of state, there had to be two agencies involved, one in my state, and one in theirs. We made a birth plan together. I wanted them to see him born. I’d call as soon as I was in labor so they could fly out. Bags were packed.

About a week before his due date, I woke up and my bed was soaking wet. There was no question in my mind, my water had broken and it was time. I got changed to go to the hospital, while my mom called his parents to let them know. We drove to the hospital, excited and ready. They were at the airport now, waiting for their flight. I was taken to the maternity ward, changed into a gown and waited. They did a test to check for amniotic fluid. It came back negative. It was explained that he must have kicked my bladder. I was sent home. We called Ashley and Dan (not his real name) to let them know. They didn’t care. They were coming anyway, and we’d wait together.

They spent the next week waiting at my mother’s house every day. They met my family. They went to my prenatal appointment that week and saw him on the ultrasound. During that week we also got a call from the father’s mother. She screamed at us that she wasn’t going to allow the adoption to go through. She wouldn’t allow her son to sign anything. She accused me of “selling” the baby and threatened to call the police. She told me she’d never allow “those people” to take him. She talked to me about the appointment at the doctor’s that Ashley and Dan had gone with me to and the lunch we went out to later. We found out she’d hired a private investigator to follow me, and us.

Still the process moved on, and still we waited. Finally, I woke up cranky and uncomfortable on Sunday morning. My mother, grandmother and Ashley discussed in hushed tones that it was clear he’d dropped. We went shopping to walk. For hours I wandered around stores, leaning on the shopping cart, just walking. Finally we went out for dinner to a buffet. I’d been craving ice cream all day and was finally going to get it. After the meal, I went up to the soft serve machines and got my ice cream with sprinkles and caramel sauce. As soon as I walked back to the table and set it down, I felt it. *SPLOOSH*.

The concern was instant. Was I okay? What happened? Was it a contraction? Did the baby kick? Did my water break? Was it time?! Since I’d been leaking fluid since the first time my water broke, there wasn’t a lot, and I assumed he’d just kicked my bladder. I wasn’t feeling contractions either. I headed off to the bathroom and sat for a while. It didn’t seem like urine, and it was still coming, but I couldn’t hold it back. I was sure at this point my water had broken. I took a quarter from my purse, bought one of those insanely thick and obnoxious pads from the dispenser in the bathroom, and returned to the table where I assured everyone it was nothing and proceeded to eat my ice cream.

After dinner, we got into the car to drive back to my mother’s house. I mentioned that I actually did believe my water broke, and I wanted to go change clothes because mine were wet. It was near pandemonium. Ashley and my mother were screaming in the back, Dan panicked and had to pull over before he got us all in a wreck. We went to my mother’s house, I changed clothes, and it was off to the hospital.

Once in the delivery room, it was confirmed that my water had broken and I was in labor, but contractions weren’t as strong as the doctor was comfortable with, and to be fair, I wasn’t feeling them at all. To move things along, they started pitocin. I had pain relief and an epidural and slept through most of my labor for the next five hours. When it came time to push, it was relatively quick for a first pregnancy. He was out in under half an hour. Ashley cut the cord, though there was some confusion in the room. Who were they supposed to hand him to? While it was decided, they cleaned him up and checked him over, and then finally when the decision was made, the most beautiful bundle was set on my chest. It was beautiful. He was passed around the delivery room, Dan was allowed back in, we all had our moment with him.

When I was moved to a room to recover, I chose to have him stay in the room with me. I knew he was going to be leaving, and I wanted every moment I could possibly have with him. I was sitting on the hospital bed, holding him in my arms when a call came to the phone in my room. It was the father’s mother. She’d been calling the hospital every morning for the last week, asking to be transferred to my room, and since I hadn’t asked them not to tell anyone I was there, the call was put through once I was settled in. She again threatened to call the police and report that I was “selling” the baby. She told me she’d be at the hospital later that afternoon to take him from the nursery. I hung up on her, but by then I was panicking. I called the nurse and told her about the call. Hospital security was brought in, and since there was a threat made to remove him from the hospital, extra security was kept on the maternity ward while we were there in case she tried to follow through with her threat. It was stressful.

The next call that came in was from the father’s grandmother. She told me she’d had a talk with her daughter, and no one was coming to take the baby, but she wanted to make sure that his adoptive parents knew about all the medical problems that ran in his family. Heart problems, diabetes, mental health issues, she rattled off a list in a sickly sweet voice. I knew what she was trying to do. I answered cheerily, “Oh, they already know all that, Rick came over and filled out the medical forms for the adoption months ago. They’ve got the full family history.” Ashley got on the phone as well at one point, and after being told the same information, answered as well. “Yes, we know all about that. Thank you for telling us, but no, it’s not necessary for you to take him. We’re going to deal with whatever medical problems he has.”

The next day, it was time to sign the paperwork. Everyone was there. The lawyer arrived, my mother was there, Ashley and Dan were there. We were waiting on the representative from the adoption agency to arrive when it was determined that even though my mother was a notary, we had to bring in someone else to notarize the documents. My mother called in a family friend to do it. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the agency representative and the father. The father actually arrived with a friend, though we hadn’t been expecting him to show up. He met Ashley and Dan, even held my son and posed for pictures, but decided to go “down to the cafeteria to grab something to drink”. By the time the representative from the adoption agency arrived, we knew he’d left. When she came into the room, I was crying, afraid that the adoption wouldn’t be able to proceed without his signature. I just looked up at her and said, “We have a problem.” The lawyer had already told her what happened, and she simply smiled and shook her head. “No, we have a situation.”

Ashley and Dan sat down and signed the paperwork first as it was read off to them before they were sent out into the hallway to wait. It was my turn. My mother offered to hold my son, but I refused. I sat cross legged on the hospital bed, my son sleeping in my lap while I signed the papers. I *needed* to hold him while I did it. He was only mine for a little while, and I was soaking up every second I had with him.

After the paperwork was signed, I had one more day with him. It was calmer. Most of the visitors had come by already, the paperwork was finished and taken care of, and the situation with his father was being handled. He was going to be served, and the lawyer had been able to get in touch with him and let him know that if he didn’t want to sign the paperwork due to the family situation, the paperwork he was being served with would give him the opportunity to contest the adoption. If it wound up in the trash or otherwise didn’t arrive back at the courthouse in the designated time period, the adoption would go through without him having to go against his mother’s wishes.

I spent that last day in the hospital holding my son from the time I woke up until it was nearly time to be discharged. Before we left, my mother had arranged something with the nurses. We took my son down to the hospital chapel for an official “handing off”. He was dressed in a tiny gown my grandmother had hand made for him to leave the hospital in and booties and a hat crocheted by my aunt. I don’t remember what was said as I handed him to his mother, but I remember we all cried and hugged. When we returned to the room, the discharge papers were ready and it was time to say goodbye. They packed him into his carseat and left for the hotel they were staying at and I left the hospital with my mother. It was when I was wheeled through the doors and moved to get into the car that it struck me how strange it was to walk into the hospital pregnant, and then leave three days later without a baby.

That night was possibly the worst night of my life. He was gone, and there was a good chance I’d never see him again. I laid in my mother’s bed and sobbed, crying myself to sleep. I woke up during the night and cried myself to sleep again and again. There was grief like I’d never felt. My heart was breaking into pieces. I knew I’d made the best choice, but it didn’t take the pain and the loss away.

The next morning, my mother let me sleep in. While I was sleeping, she got a phone call. Ashley and Dan had to stay another week while the adoption was filed in both states, waiting for permission to take him home. They wanted to know if they could bring him over to our house to wait together. Of course we said yes! That week was an unexpected gift. I changed diapers, I fed him, I held him. Like in the hospital, I almost never put him down. I treasured every moment spent with him. They took pictures when I fell asleep in a recliner with him sleeping on my chest. We laughed together when my milk came in unexpectedly and soaked my shirt when he cried. When they said he’d kept them up the night before, we laughed and made jokes about “No refunds no returns” (something we still say today 19 years later). We got five beautiful days with him, all of us together sharing his existence together one last time, and I got to say goodbye. We cried again when the call came in from that the lawyer that everything was completed and they could take him home. The night they left there weren’t tears. I’d had the time I needed and was completely at peace with the decision.

When they returned home, they proved to be everything I hoped they’d be. We talked on the phone at least once a month, but usually more often than that. We got pictures emailed every week, then every month, then once a year as everyone got busy. They emailed family snapshots of birthdays, Christmases, camping trips. When he got old enough to be interested in talking on the phone, I called him more often than I called his mother, but we always talk as well. When I became pregnant with my daughters, I called and told Ashley before I even told my own mother. We became part of their family and they became part of ours.

Fourteen years after his adoption he came for a visit. The first time they’d been back since they took him home. They spent three days visiting with my grandfather and my mother, going to all the old family places, then came to my mother’s house for another half a week to spend time with the rest of the family. He’d grown into an amazing young man, but I already knew that from the pictures and phone calls. Getting to hug him again was the most amazing thing I never thought would happen that first night I left the hospital. I got to see my three children together finally. My girls got to be carried around piggieback by the big brother they’d talked to on the phone and over the internet, but never met. I gave him the guitar I got for my birthday the year I got pregnant with him but never learned to play. Dan had taught him, so I’d been saving it for him. I’ve got pictures of my three children cuddling together on my mother’s couch, the girls dogpiling him in the yard. I got time to just sit and talk to him face to face.

He’s 19 now and in college. We don’t talk as much as we used to, but we still chat online and text back and forth. He texts, video calls and chats on the phone with his sisters almost every day. My older daughter is 13 now, and he’s her confidant, the go to for all her teenage angst. He laughs at my 11 year old daughter’s jokes and they talk about her favorite youtubers. They have the kind of relationship I always hoped they would.

What it feels like to give your child for adoption is bittersweet. There have been terrible moments of grief and worry and fear, and beautiful moments of pure love and joy. It was the hardest, most heartbreaking decision I’ve ever made, but has worked out in the most wonderful way.

We married late (we were 38 years old) and had one biological child quickly. I was 40 when he was born, but confident that another would come soon. Nope. Asked doctors for help. Did everything short of IVF, but my eggs were 40+ years old and it just wouldn’t take. We turned to adoption. My mother had been adopted and my husband has first cousins who were adopted. It was an easy choice for us. Three young women offered their babies and then changed their minds and kept them. We had to approve of their choices; I couldn’t imagine giving up a child I’d known and loved for 9 months of pregnancy. Finally we got the call - a baby boy had been born a few days before, a legal risk because the father was unknown, a different skin color, but healthy, did we want him?

Oh, yes! We met him a few hours later and fell in love on the spot. He’s 25 years old now, a happy and productive young man, and he’s coming home for Christmas - just two days because he has rehearsals and classes, but for three nights he’ll be under our roof again. He flew in to his grandmother’s funeral this summer. He’s one of us, just as our biological son is, and the two of them are definitely bonded as brothers. Adoption has been a positive experience for our family.

Being adopted for me was awesome and tragic at the same time. My parents were the best. They made me feel loved, wanted and completely special. My grandparents were awful. When at their house for family gatherings I was the odd man out. The cousins and my sisters were their grandkids. I was the adopted one. My grandmother even would introduce me as “her adopted grandson”. As a child it didn't feel like it bothered me. As an adult I realized how much it did. Every adopted kid has questions about where they came from. I was no different. But my circumstances weren't typical. I was an abandoned baby. Born next to an apartment building and found by the police. There were no records to uncover. So I did ancestry DNA. 5 years later I found my biological half sister. I had lots of questions answered.