A Bunch of Crazy People in a Crazy World

At last it’s Friday, and yet another week has gone by. I slept five full nights out of seven, but only a few hours those other nights. I rarely dream anymore. Sitting up at nights is not funny at all, though I spend the time writing and try to scribble something sensible down. It’s not an easy task when all the little grey ones are turned off for the night. At this hour I am perhaps even more sensitive, and my moods strengthen. My PTSD blossoms, and like on so many other days I feel sad, enraged and restless. In short, on the inside I am like a bomb with too short a fuse. That fuse is lit, but the bomb itself never explodes; it’s always a moment from detonating. This inner pressure does something to me in the long run. My never ending background radiation of sadness is killing me slowly, I am sure. A friend told me, “You’re never going to get rid of it, so you’ll have to learn to deal with it. Get some alleviating, and then set up small goals for yourself along the way.” I am proud to be one of the Crazy People in this Crazy world.

So why are we adoptees a bunch of Crazy People? We want to find our roots, family, relatives, those who mean so much to us. We wish to know our story, our Mum and Dad. We need to get answers to our questions, “Why did it happen? Where are you? Do you still exist, or are you dead? What do you look like? Do I resemble you? Do I have your personality? Do you still remember me? Do you still love me? Will I ever meet you at some point in life? Is it possible to catch up? Will we be strangers to each other? Will I be rejected? Will I get the love and care that I missed out on for so long? What will happen if I really do meet you? Will I lose my courage and vanish into my shell? Will I even dare to look at you after all of these years? Do I dare to say to you, “Mum, Dad, I’ve missed you for so long.” 

To the outside world we are Crazy People, because we want to know such basic things. We want to have our human rights. We want to know our own history, where we come from and who we come from, in order to know ourselves. We need to know our families’ health history, in case there is anything serious that we ought to be aware of in order to take precautions, like heart conditions, allergies, diabetes and so on.

We are Crazy People because we will no longer accept all the bloody unfairness in Adoptionland. We are Crazy People because we have decided to enlighten the world, shout out the truth. We are no longer going to shut up like obedient sheep and simply take what’s handed to us, just to satisfy everyone else.

For how long will today’s norm about adoptions be glued into our consciousness? Will it change in this generation? Or the next? For how long will it be considered OK to rip children away from their natural parents, place them with other families, and think that all is well. It will never be all right. It’s not at all normal that adoptees must go in search of their families. We should not have to do that! We’re taken out of context, like actors in the wrong movie, poorly scripted and with awful direction. We should be allowed to be in the right movie, the one written and directed for us, with our real parents and our natural surroundings. It amazes me over and over how the lack of understanding flourishes in the world. Adoptees are commodities, merchandise for selfish adoptive parents, and a generous source of income for greedy adoption agencies around the world. Had adoption not been so profitable, the business would have vanished. The world needs to take off its blindfold and see this!

Who are the most crazy? The adoptees, who only want to know and have their human rights? Or the rest of the people in the world, who still willingly accept, allow and approve that little children can be kidnapped, sold, abused in so many ways and scarred for life? Those children are doomed to live in an emotional Limbo. To put it rough and simple, they either become so angry and desperate that they play Russian roulette with their lives, and risk ruining themselves completely, or they get stuck in a pink-cloud fairytale life of denial. Either way its not the way our lives were meant to be. We belong with our real parents, our natural parents, our First Mothers. It is as simple as that.

So be proud, all of you Crazy People out there, you who have woken up from the pink cloud charade. We are the true Normal ones, relative to the outside world who go bananas every time we scream for justice, justice, justice.

Namasté

~ Khara

Broken Lines

A portrait of Joe Soll, an adoptee, who has been a great help and inspiration for me, both personally and through his books. This ten minute video is by the MediaStorm Storytelling Workshop.

Joe Soll never met his natural parents. Raised by upper-middle class New Yorkers, he spent half of his life tormented by the death of his mother. But then one day, that story suddenly began to unravel.

“I felt crazed,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

What followed was a three decade search for the truth and a mystery that would haunt him for years. Through almost unbearable personal pain, Joe has devoted his life to a single question, where did I come from? The quest for that answer has redefined him, setting Joe on a mission to help others.

(Click the picture to open the ten minute video in a new window)

Dearest Umma

I wish I could send you a message, put it in a bottle, set it adrift across light years on the endless sea of stars, let it float on sparkling rays of light. Within it are written words of my soul, spoken from the bottom of my heart. I pray that this message reaches you.

Umma, my mother, where are you? What distant corner of the Universe? Is there a Heaven, a Paradise? May I speak to you, may we meet, through dreams or meditation? My Inner Child wants to know. So many times she has cried for you, reached out for you and screamed with pain of missing you. She sits with her hands folded, saying her prayers again and again. Why can I not hear your voice? Call for me, please, so I can find you and come running. Why are we apart? For so long have I been wishing you were here with me.

Although death parts us, my Inner Child feels as if you were still alive. Her hopes, dreams and feelings remain the same as they were back then, at the moment when we went different ways. She doesn’t understand that you died, as she lay beside you, that you had passed on and would be gone forever. Her heart longs for you, wishes to meet you, hear your voice, feel your embrace, sit in your lap and give you little butterfly kisses. She wishes to feel that you love her.

Everything happened because you left so soon, that’s when my long journey began, along with the hardships for the family. My only comfort is my belief that I will meet you again, when my time here is over. I hate adoption, which took me as far away from you as possible. Your grave is so distant, and I don’t know the way. But when the time comes, dear Umma, please take my tiny hand in yours, and guide your little daughter home. Until then, rest in peace in the realms of Heaven, and may our souls one day be rejoined and heal together in the light of a bright, distant star.

I miss you so much, you will never know.

Namasté

Khara