The Ungrateful Adoptee II

Probably the most problematic aspect of the adoption world.  Your desire. Your "need" for a child. Your selfishness and entitlement, thinking you"deserve" one. You want one so badly you're willng to borrow against your assets, beg from strangers, and steal from expectant mothers. You're willing to pay tens of thousands of dollars to rent a womb or buy a newborn that is probably very much wanted by its mother. To pay to strip a child of its name and family, so you can paste yours in its place and play pretend. Because you want  a child. Because you want  to "be a parent". Because somewhere along the way, society (especially wealthy white christian society), convinced itself that parenthood is a panacea, a purpose, a path to fulfillment, a happy ending. The be-all, end-all of life. I've got news for you. Parenting isn't all love and hugs, some "grand adventure". Parenting isn't "a lifelong friendship with your child&q

Because, yes, it does need to be addressed again, and this time in more general terms.  ADOPTERS: Listen and listen well, because I have no intention of rewriting this blog again in Positive Adoption Language to suit your tender sensibilities. Firstly, allow me to reiterate a question from the previous incarnation of this blog. How do you expect to raise an adoptee when you can't even talk to one online? Really. Riddle me this, because I want to know. When we're little, it's easier. We don't snap back. We're content with the small proofs of love and permanence. Frankly, it's easier for us to believe and pretend, and that makes it easier for you. It allows you, for a time, to push it out of your mind. The questions are easier to answer. You get to sugar coat and leave things out. You get "Mommy, I love you" and gratitude. You get fits of insecurity, tantrums thrown out of fear or frustration. It happens to disenfranchised little people who have no

I guess on some level I've always been Julie, even when I wasn't called Julie. Before I knew who I was, before I had access to my name and real identity, I was always Julie underneath it all. I was Julie for the first six months of my life, and Julie I remained. But being Julie isn't easy, let me tell you.  The name, the identity, the person I was supposed to be, never fit me. It was like wearing a 1980s Halloween costume; basically a trash bag with a print of Strawberry Shotrcake's dress or a Transformer suit stamped on it, and a horrible, flimsy plastic mask with vacant eyeholes and a thin elastic string that pops you painfully in the ear every time you put it on. Or, my favorite example: as the Countess Bathory was fond of doing to her young female servants, it's very similar to having all your bones broken, being shoved into a box, and being left to heal that way. When she dumps you out, you're cube shaped, you can't move, you can barely talk, and that