An exception…

I  am not a person who follows what others are doing. Back in high school, I wore designer jeans and had big hair like everyone else, but back then, I wanted to fit in at high school. 

I don’t copy and paste things and repost them on my Facebook page. I don’t take quizzes or do Wordle. The one exception is following the crowd wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a big deal to me. When I was a child I hated St. Patrick’s Day.

Growing up adopted, I didn’t know my nationalities, and it bothered me when other people were proudly Irish, Italian, German, etc. I never knew how to answer when someone asked me what I “was.” I was nothing.

I would stammer around my words, explaining that I was adopted and didn’t know. That’s when people would play the guessing game. “You look Italian, you have to be Italian.” Many people thought I looked Jewish or Mediterranean. All good guesses but no one ever said, Irish. 

St. Patrick’s Day was my mother’s big holiday; she was Irish. My parents told me I was adopted when I was five years old. I remember I asked her if I was Irish too? She never answered me; instead, she would dress me up in green like a doll and send me to school telling me it was ok that I was wearing green; everyone was Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. It still makes me cringe how bad I felt and stupid wearing green.

I left the house in tears. I hated her for knowing she was Irish, and I didn’t know what I was. She hurt me year after year with that comment. Telling her how I felt wouldn’t have done any good, plus big consequences would have been. My father always told me to keep my mouth shut; everyone would be happy. Seriously?

That all changed in 2014 when I finally found my biological history, family, and DNA. I was indeed Irish; I am 72% Irish, about 6% Scottish, and a little Eastern European.

I found my biological Information after my mother had her stroke in 2013. She never wanted me to know my history and lied about her having my adoption information. She told me I would have to wait until she died. All the Information was in a large folder. Her “death” folder, she called it. 

The night of her stroke, I had to find and open the death folder and pull out the power of attorney paperwork for the hospital naming me as such. When I went through the rest of the death folder, I realized there was no paperwork from my adoption or any information.

I had to clean out her apartment since she now lived in a care facility. When I realized there was no information, not even a clue, I was in a state of shock. I remember sitting on the empty apartment floor crying that I never found anything, and she lied to me.

Not only was I in shock but more so angry and sad. How dare she use my adoption information like a carrot being dangled in front of me my whole life. I had to wait, she always said. Even when I had severe health issues, she didn’t want me to know anything, even my medical history.

A couple of months after closing the apartment, I called Catholic Charities in Newark, NJ, for help. New Jersey’s Governor opened sealed adoption records on January 1, 2014. I gave a woman from Catholic Charities some information, not thinking she would find anything. Guess what? They found my biological mother in 3 weeks. I can’t describe to you how it felt when I finally got the Information I had been wanting and needing.

I never told my adopted mother I found my biological or DNA history. I didn’t tell her I had relationships with my birth family either. I didn’t want to hurt her even though I was still hurt and angry that she lied to me. On the other hand, I didn’t think she deserved to know. It was my Information, not hers.

Once I found out my history, it closed a nagging open circle I had for my whole life. I felt complete. This is not something I can describe, only adopted people would know how it felt. I also knew I was blessed to have a happy ending when I searched when many others weren’t that lucky. It was a risk I was willing to take, no matter what I would have found.

Now that my adopted mother is deceased, I realize after working on forgiveness and letting go of hurtful stuff why she acted the way she did. She used the Irish thing on me for years to make herself feel better. She had something I didn’t have and she rubbed it in. Did she do it on purpose? Was she that unhappy or jealous of a child?

As far as lying to me about my adoption information, I know she was afraid of someone taking me back, or her worst fear was what if I did find my biological mother and like her better. As a mother, I can see how she may have felt that way, but it still doesn’t excuse continuing the lie for 48 years.

Finding my biological mother would never have changed the fact that she was my mother who took care of me, raised me, and always would be my mother. I loved her, and that would never change.

Back to St. Patrick’s Day, I found out Irish people tell ten stories before getting to what they want to say. I thought it was just me; it drives Marty crazy.

Now, I jump on the bandwagon every St. Patrick’s Day and wear green as everyone else does. I wear green like a beacon of green, showing the world where I came from and could finally answer those who wanted to what I “was.”

I knew someday this story would come out, I didn’t expect it to on St. Patrick’s Day. I didn’t expect to write about my mother in this piece. Before I knew it, words were pouring out of me.

Writing about my relationship with my mother is painful but is helping me with forgiveness and letting go. I still have a long way to go; there is a lot of emotional hurt and abuse trapped inside of me. Every time I let a little piece go, I feel the healing effect. 

I said from the start I wanted to be genuine and authentic on my blog. I wasn’t going to write about a bunch of fake bullshit; I would write about the journey I am on, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Yes, this was another difficult piece for me to write, but it needed to be told. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day! 🍀