I am not like that

There have been many articles about adoption recently. The most recent one in today’s Times has broken my back and forced me to write something. I have recently felt overcome by an avalanche of negativity towards adoptees and care-experienced people. Part of this has occurred for personal reasons and part of this is because of the media. However, it is exhausting when the only coverage is either patronising or demonising. It is not as exhausting as actually being in care or being an adoptee, but it is exhausting nonetheless.

I should start by saying that speaking of recent coverage, I am not saying that there is not a very real problem with families suffering acute distress and not having the support they deserve. I’m not saying that that isn’t true. Rather, I am talking about something different.

I am talking about what it is like when your face is only reflected back at you in articles which say you’re violent. I am talking about what it is like when all those who went before you are presented to you on a platter of damning statistics. I am talking about what it is like when you overhear colleagues making sweeping generalisations about people like you – except that they don’t realise it, because they have no idea of who you are. I am talking about what it is like when you turn on Radio 4 on your way to work only to feel as stigmatised as you did whenever you moved school in care. I am talking about what it is like when, as an adoptee or care-experienced person, most things that you read about yourself either patronise you or demonise you.

I am talking about what it is like when you daren’t “come out”, because you know what all these people think about people like you.

And it is unrelenting. From today’s Times, regarding family placements: “some families have bad news written right the way through them”. Well, maybe that is true and maybe it is not. But how do you know whether a family member has bad news written through them like a piece of rotten rock? How do you know unless you assess them? Unless, of course, this ability to know whether an entire family is rotten through-and-through (and few people are rotten by the way) is because you just “know”? Perhaps because of blood or genetic inheritance? Or care-experience? Or poverty?

I have no doubt where people with such opinions would place me: a care-experienced adoptee from a family with multiple generations of social services involvement. That’s the rotten pile for sure. The badness runs through me like a wretched piece of rotten rock.

I was rotten in care, rotten as an adoptee, and will be rotten should I ever need to be a kinship carer. Rotten, rotten, rotten.

Maybe if I was an adopter I could distance myself a little bit more – different genes and all that – but as the person who actually has the bad blood and the bad experiences, I clearly can’t distance myself from anything. Rotten, rotten, rotten.

I clearly have bad news written through me. I didn’t always. Once – bless my little cotton socks – I was a poor little child in care being advertised in an adoption magazine. As we are told in The Times today, I was waiting, and every month I waited my happiness drained away. Forget for a moment that I never once waited, but lived in a suitable, lovely and loving foster home whilst all the legal and ethical necessities were sorted: I was waiting and longing. I was a wretched little thing. Wretched, wretched, rotten, rotten.

But you know what? Forget that. My message to The Times and the world is: no, it was not like that; and no, I am not like that.

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Beginnings and Endings and Everything A-Swirl

I have been having many conversations with my [adoptive] mum recently about some very real problems that we are facing as a family. We are actually facing several problems but there is one that stands out and haunts us night and day.

One of our relatives faces a lot of challenges in their everyday life and this is having an unacceptable negative effect on others. This relative has always caused and/or attracted drama of some description (which is exhausting as I only like drama of the Lewis type) but the stakes are now extremely high.

In one of these conversations my mum voiced her upset: I just wanted to give a child a good life and I don’t know if I’ve made his life any better at all. I tried to reassure her that she had made a difference. I replied, completely honestly, that she had definitely made things better and that without her input his life would be significantly worse – who knows where we would be – and the situation now facing us and everyone else would also be far, far worse. I also pointed out that she had stayed true to her promise (I have no idea how – she’s a saint really) and was still involved, even though I think many people would understand it if she just completely wiped her hands of the situation. I think that many people would think she has done her bit; she can just let it all go now. But nope: she’s still there. And I can see that. And I thanked her.

But you see, this whole breaking-the-cycle thing is not something any of us can do on our own. My mum can’t do it. I can’t do it. A mental health professional can’t do it. And can it be done without the ability and willingness of those who seemingly want to perpetuate it? My life has long involved dealing with all sorts of (other people’s!) drama that puts EastEnders and Jeremy Kyle to shame. But the situation can in reality only be made less worse and by a whole collection of people acting together – and even then it’s hard because God things are complicated and hard.

We are adoptees, adopters, care leavers, birth family members and foster family members all trying to come to a solution. And you know what? Where are the barriers between us now?! The barriers are falling and our identities are dissolving and merging and changing. But there is a positive here – insofar as there is one – in that over the last couple of years a whole series of things (including this) has brought greater empathy and understanding all round and a shared sense of all of our experiences. We are now all changing places on the board and seeing it all anew.

But like anyone – whether that be a birth parent, an adopter, a care leaver, or anyone else – we can only do what we can with the resources we have. And ‘resources’ includes things such as mental and physical health as well as support networks, education, and income.

But some of our resources are impaired, including my own to some extent. I completely understand why one of the others, a care leaver, feels completely unable to get involved because to do so would necessitate engagement with social services. Back in the day their local authority made some utterly shocking decisions. In this particular care leaver’s case, I liken their reaction to the one you would get if you told an adult who had been abused by priests as a child (and this was covered up by the hierarchy) that in order to help they must let priests and the hierarchy back into their lives. I understand their reaction because I can also remember a time when the words Social Services or Social Worker made me feel sick to the core on an involuntary visceral level. But your own recovery has to come first: you cannot help anyone else if you yourself are drowning.

I just hope that our collective resources, and especially my own, will be enough.

But I must go now. But there is so much that I cannot even begin, let alone end. (I have not even begun).

I don’t know if all of this is the beginning or the end or the conclusion to what came before. Or maybe a bit in the middle of a never-ending cycle?

As I go to bed my mind un-exorcised, I am reminded of some lines from one of my favourite poems:

But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

 

Wordsworth, The Prelude

You know you’ve been adopted as an older child when…

…your new adoptive parents think you have identity issues, but in fact you’re not thinking “Who am I?” but “Who the f*** are you?”

…you have to stop yourself starting sentences with “When I first met my parents…”

…everyone thinks you’re confused and can’t handle your very complex set of family relationships, but really they’re the ones who are confused and who can’t handle them

…you struggle to breathe under the weight of everyone’s low expectations

…due to the many families you’ve lived in, you have more insight than your mono-cultural adoptive parents do into the fact that their beliefs regarding etiquette and rudeness are not in fact universal and obvious

…you find yourself thinking about how your new parents’ “firm boundaries” are just as arbitrary as the “firm rules” of everyone else, and not really that different, revolutionary, or helpful

…you know that it’s not birth or an adoption certificate that make a family, as your foster families are important too

…you have a unique insight into teachers’ expectations, assumptions and prejudices as you experienced going to schools where they knew you were a child in care and also ones where they assumed you were the birth child of professional and articulate middle class parents

…you know, through experience, that there are many ways to bring up a child – and that in spite of criticisms one set of parents might have for another they’re all OK as long there’s no abuse or neglect

…you find yourself sighing as a child because everything you do is interpreted as being because you’re adopted. Because, as we know, nothing adoptees do is normal or like things other, non-adopted, children do. This is especially so if you were adopted as an older child. Apparently

…like all adoptees, you are always a child, even when you’re 25, 35, 60 or 100.

…your “relevance” to adoption, your voice, and your ability to access post-adoption support has a shorter shelf-life than those adopted at younger ages. You reach the magical cut-off ages of 21 or 25 much sooner. After these ages you’re no longer deemed relevant to adoption or given a voice by any mainstream organisation. This is in spite of the fact that other adoptees who were adopted on exactly the same day that you were are still considered relevant and given support – because they were younger than you were when they were adopted (and are thus still under 25). Yet you have been adopted for exactly the same length of time. Weird. Especially when one could argue that many of those adopted at older ages require more support. And, even if they do not, they definitely do not require less support and they are not less relevant to “modern adoption”. The ARE modern adoption

…you don’t have a birth order. Well, you were born as a first, middle or last child but you’ve lived in every position possible in the 5, 6, 7 or 8 homes you’ve lived in. You grew up as the eldest, youngest, and everywhere-in-the-middle child

…internet memes and stereotypes about birth order make absolutely no sense – and annoy you because you’ve lived in absolutely every combination under the sun

…you know you’re not as important as your adoptive parents’ birth children because maintaining their birth order is important, but your birth order within the family can be changed to suit everyone else

…you know more about your childhood than your parents do

…you know more about your childhood than your parents think they do

…you write half your life story book yourself because your social worker has missed bits out

…you correct the spelling and grammar in your Be My Parent advert and your life story book because your literacy levels are higher than those who have responsibility for you

…you are able to see the inaccuracies in your files and realise that they’re utterly useless and that it’s good you kept all those diaries and remembered everywhere you lived, because if you didn’t you would have no idea about anything

…you know you’re not going to be believed or ever win if it’s ever you versus your parents’ birth child or another child. Don’t forget: adopted children are a danger to all other children and are liars – and older child adoptees are the absolute worst

…anything bad you do is because of your birth family or your <whisper> experiences, but anything good you do is because of what opportunities your adoptive parents gave you

…if you don’t succeed it shows that older child adoption doesn’t work, but if you do it demonstrates that adoption is A Good Thing

…you’re an adult before you can start a conversation with your parents with “Remember when…”

…your adoptive parents treat you like a little child when you first arrive, even though you’re already into boy bands and reading the classics. It’s quite excruciatingly embarrassing for everyone as you pretend to like toys and books for young children

…you read the books your parents are reading to help parent you and even at that age you think it’s all b****cks. When you look back when you are at an older, more mature, age, you adapt your opinion slightly and think it’s all dangerous b****cks

…you find you have less freedom as an adolescent than you did as a pre-teen because your new parents are stricter than your foster parents

…you pretend not to be into teenager stuff just yet because you are acutely aware that your new parents didn’t really want to adopt a teenager – and that you’re what they got stuck with

…you’re advertised by the social worker as the ‘Buy One Get One Free’ child

…your adoptive parents are still more or less strangers when you have to tell them about starting your period or dealing with facial hair

…everyone – and every book and every film and every adoption advert ever – is telling you that you’re lucky that anyone even wanted you

…you were a non-adopted child for longer than you were an adopted child, and can compare the two

…you’re old enough to remember your birth name and the addresses and phone numbers of your birth and foster families

…for some reason it’s OK for your new adoptive parents to “fake it ’till you make it” in terms of giving you the impression that they love you when you’ve only just met, but if you do that it’s manipulative and a sign of attachment disorder. Or something.

…because you’re an older child adoptee, your intelligence is mistaken for manipulation and calculation

…it messes with your head to use your adoption certificate in place of your birth certificate because it means, administratively speaking, that you were born in adolescence

…you didn’t have a strict, liberal, religious, or secular upbringing, but all of them

…the questions ‘were your parents strict?’ or ‘were your parents religious?’ make absolutely no sense in the context of your life

…you have to cut short anecdotes when speaking to acquaintances because you realise halfway through that it makes no sense unless you explain that you were living with six children’s home siblings at the time

…you forget how many brothers and sisters you’ve told someone you have so you worry they’ll think you’re a liar if you start talking about them again

…you forget whether you’ve told someone about your birth, foster or adoptive heritage, and therefore can’t remember if they think you’re Irish or Jewish or Polish or whatever

…you’re like a chameleon and can fit into all sorts of situations – or be equally uncomfortable in all of them

…you’ve known someone for several years and they stop a conversation short halfway through and ask for clarification about which sibling is which

…you realise that other people class ‘older child adoption’ as referring to children who were nearly a decade younger than you when you were adopted

…you answer questions about your childhood with ‘Well, it depends on which parents you mean…’

…most adoptees are adopted at an age when you were still living with your birth family and social services weren’t even in your life yet

…you feel an affinity with both care leavers and adoptees, but you don’t quite fit into either box

…virtually nothing written or said about adoption, even about so-called “older child adoption”, reflects your life in any way whatsoever

A Roll of the Dice

There is nothing like a General Election to make me reminisce and ask some fairly fundamental questions.

I was born into disadvantage and initially grew up in what I would call loving but far from ideal circumstances.  I spent the first third of my childhood living with the family that I was born into and the next third in local authority care. I spent the final third as the adopted child of wealthy and loving middle-class parents. I have lived most of my adult life amongst the privileged (with some exceptions) although my complicated family crosses the social-economic spectrum; it includes the rich and powerful as well as the poor and struggling.

I have not found this mixed upbringing, as I call it, a complete headfeck. Rather, my politics are born from it.

I cannot forget what it is like to be poor or to be a child and to know that I’m poor. I cannot forget what it is like to be in care. I cannot forget what it is like to be the least important. I cannot forget what it is like to have the state in control of my life – and to be both dependent on the state and to fear and hate it.

I also cannot forget what it is like to be one of the wealthiest children in my class. I cannot forget what it was like to be treated differently based upon what people assumed was my background. I cannot forget what it was like to have opportunities suddenly open up before me.

I cannot forget the moment I started thinking: why is everything different for me now? Why couldn’t I have had all this before? Did I have to be adopted to be deserving?

I know, more than anyone, what a roll of the dice life is. I was born into something, tumbled around somewhere else, and then plonked in another place entirely. I had to become ‘as if born to’ middle class parents in order to enjoy the privileges that I now enjoy. It would not have happened as a child of the state: one needs well-resourced and caring parents to even get near the ladder. My corporate parent was not really up to it. This is not a comment on any individual foster parents, but a comment on the whole. It is sad, really. I did not have an emotional need for new parents. No: I had an opportunity need for new parents. I needed adoptive parents because I needed a lottery ticket. Even if that wasn’t anyone’s intention, because of the structure of our society that was the effect. If my life experiences have shown me anything, it’s that good parents, wealth and connections are lottery tickets, far more than they should be. I needed adoptive parents because the best way to get on in life is to have well-connected and wealthy parents. Family background is worth far, far more than it should be.

And, you know, it is so, so sad. I needed to belong – and to be owned by – parents in order for them to invest in me. The state was not going to invest in me because I wasn’t theirs. I have a few horror stories which demonstrate just this – a corporate parent actively quashing opportunity because it cost too much and the long-term investment could not be seen. I still remember when I was not worthy of investment – unworthy of a leaf from the Magic Money Tree.

As journalists go on about politicians’ backgrounds, I find myself asking: who am I? Where do I come from? Who are my people? But really it’s about: Who do I want to be? Who do I think we should be? What are my responsibilities? What are everyone’s vulnerabilities? What about the most vulnerable? Those for whom the state is all they have?

Every single time a politician speaks of equality of opportunity and says ‘it shouldn’t matter who a child’s parents are’ I think: what if they don’t have parents? What if YOU are their parent? What if YOU were the controlling mind behind the amorphous group of individuals and entities which make up a ‘corporate parent’?

I read somewhere that a person can leave care, but that care never leaves a person. In my experience this is true. No matter what else is happening in my life – no matter how privileged or glitzy – it really just comes down to this:

What if I had no one to turn to but the state?

What if the state was still my parent?

Goldfish Bowl

 A Riddle

I live my life in a goldfish bowl. I am observed and monitored from all sides. The things I do – and the things I don’t – are recorded. The things I say – and the things I don’t – are written down. I am carefully studied. All my actions, except the important ones, are deemed to have significance. My private conversations are the subject of people’s discussion. My flippant remarks are kept on file for a century. People interact with me in a choreographed manner: the state, books and others tell people what to say to me, what to do, and when to do it, all in an attempt to steer (or manipulate) my relationships. Those relationships that I do have need Official Approval to exist. I have no privacy. I say something – or I don’t say something (I am not told the rules) – and a game of whispers seals my fate. State representatives make decisions and hang them on my words. I must tread carefully: I am surrounded on all sides. Microphones are everywhere, ready to magnify my words beyond my intention. I am being observed. I am being scrutinised. I am being watched.

Who Am I?

Like most graduates of the care system, I knew very little privacy when growing up. I spent my time in a goldfish bowl being monitored by parents, carers, the school, social services, and everyone else I came into contact with. Everything I did was carefully studied and recorded. Actually, let me correct part of that: some things I did were carefully recorded. Actual facts (often irrelevant ones) were recorded alongside half-truths, blatant fabrications, bizarre interpretations, benign misunderstandings, and… whatever it is that got redacted. The post-truth era really was alive and well back then.

But I am not talking about the lies, the half-truths, and the redactions. I am talking about the horror of living in a goldfish bowl. Because let me tell you something: constant observation is horrific for the observed.

(Do I exist if I’m not being observed? I sometimes wished I didn’t exist. I wished I could be invisible like other children. Like normal children. Like actual children.)

Living in a goldfish bowl causes a lot of strain. Your relationships are affected as you know that all adults can and probably will inform social services about everything. The state’s thirst for knowledge about you is more important than your privacy.  Every time that you speak, you must remember that it’s not a private conversation: you may in fact be speaking to your social worker (or indeed any other similar person), who may write down a garbled version for posterity. It doesn’t matter if what you said is a safeguarding issue or not, it will have made its way to be recorded in Your Files.

It is particularly stressful if you are aware, as I was, that one wrong movement and your life might blow up in your face. When you are a child of the state, great weight is put onto everything you do (or don’t do – who even knows) by pseudo-psychologists. I once made the mistake of getting out a book and reading it to my birth mum during a contact session. This was of course recorded, and then interpreted negatively with regards my relationship with my sibling. Of course! No child in care ever liked reading! And no child in care had a contact session where – gasp! – the birth mother encouraged reading! Nope: it must be that there is something wrong with the sibling relationship.

And, of course, there is also the state representative – with no particular qualifications – who observed me for an entire hour and then came to a conclusion which they then repeated several times, with increasing authority each time. For, as we know, if you say something enough times it becomes true, and if you type it on official paper it becomes true quicker.

Observation doesn’t necessarily stop if you’re adopted. I found to my horror that adoptees can be gawped at and written about just as much as children in care. My parents would write things down about me (in my presence) and then put it into their file about me (without letting me see what they wrote). I found this odd then and I still do. I remember wondering if they were using it as a power thing. Of course, they interpreted most of the things I said or did (and also anything I didn’t say or do that was on their criteria of things I should say or do) as relating to my adoption, which is not only incorrect but utterly bizarre. But the effect was to make me feel as though I was not in a family home but in a psychiatric setting. That, in fact, goes for a lot of my care experience: you are constantly monitored and analysed, as though you are in a clinical, and not a domestic, setting.

These (mis)interpretations can have life-changing consequences. As an older child, I was acutely aware of this; I wasn’t stupid, even if some people assumed I was. The stress was exhausting. I remember trying to figure out how to act in contact sessions so as to get more contact sessions, and how to act around my new adoptive parents so as to have contact with my previous foster carers. It’s unbelievable when you think about it. Especially when you realise that no, it wasn’t paranoia: I was being observed, and important decisions were being made on the basis of these observations.

(How far does being observed change the thing being observed?)

(Are you paranoid if what you’re paranoid about is true?)

I remember being watched (sorry, ‘supervised’) during my Goodbye Contact. For the uninitiated, a Goodbye Contact is when a child who is going to be adopted says goodbye, for the last time, to their birth family. My Goodbye Contact is the last time I ever saw my own mother. (Goodbye Contact deserves capitals for this reason, Goddamit. Although my preferred name is Funeral Day. It is the day you say goodbye). Imagine, for a second, that you are seeing a dying relative for the last time and that everything you are doing and saying during this meeting is being watched and you know that it will then be recorded, discussed with other people, and then left on a file somewhere. (And, of course, that this whole scenario has been dreamed up by The Powers That Be for your own good. And, of course, that years later you have to fight The Powers That Be to see the records of this day, for reasons that remain obscure). Insult, injury, and kicking a dog when it’s down all come to mind.

There is no such thing as a private moment when you are a child in care. There is no such thing as tenderness, grief, privacy, or emotion. We are all robots, ready to take on whatever exterior is demanded by our latest set of carers, whether they’re atheist, Jewish, Catholic, strict, easy-going, Tory, Labour, or rich or poor.

There is also no such thing as a normal relationship. I was very aware, at times, that the adults around me were acting in a particular way because they wanted to cause a particular effect. People attempted to control or re-orientate my relationships by choreographing my interactions with them. For example, I was painfully, excruciatingly and embarrassingly aware of how everyone was acting during my Goodbyes (sorry, ‘introductions’): they were all acting as they were ‘supposed’ to act in order to make it easier for me (newsflash: there is nothing that can make it easier). This was of course all confirmed when a month after I moved in with my new parents I came across a book about children moving from care to adoption. My parents had underlined some parts about where and when visits with the previous foster carers should be and that sort of thing. I felt sick – sick and controlled. I felt sorry for them that they had to look at this book rather than talk to me. But I’m glad I found that book because it helped me understand where my parents were coming from. But above all it made me realise that they really didn’t get it. I could see through the manipulation (I am not making a value judgement with this word, just describing) before coming across this book and it was, to use a phrase I didn’t know at the time, to rearrange the deckchairs on the Titanic. I felt that they were trying to stick to a script in a desperate attempt to make everything go right: – if only we do P in X, Y, Z order, then all will be fine. Alas, that’s not how it works or how it worked. I don’t doubt their sincerity of intention, but all it did was add to my feelings of being watched, monitored, and manipulated.

But we all participated in this. I was also conscious of being observed, so I read the book in order to figure out how I should act (and not act) so that my parents would understood what was going on. We all participated in the dance – dancing in the goldfish bowl.

My experience of being constantly observed affects me even now. I cannot stand it when my GP makes notes: it is, again, someone in a position of power making a record about me. Interviews are hard for the same reason! I once picked up a book because of its title ‘panopticon’. I didn’t even know what it was about but the title struck me like a truck-load of falling bricks.  I knew what the word meant but had never come across a book with the title. Why did it strike me? Because I felt that the word encapsulated my experiences as a child in care – my experiences of being under constant observation. As it happens, the book has a theme about care. Who’d’ve thought?! When I saw the title, I thought about care – and it had a theme about care. That shows not only the power of words but it also suggests that I am perhaps not the only person to have ever made such a connection.

But what strikes me most is this: in spite of all their watching, they did not really see.

Answer: I am, of course, a child of the state. I am a LAC, a CIC, a PP child. I have corporate parents and am a public child. But I am, really, just a child.

An Ordinary Life

I had been pondering about what to write about for my next post, but could find little in my life that jumped out at me screaming ADOPTION. I could have left it there and waited until something recognisably ADOPTION came up in my life. However, on further reflection I thought that this would give a rather skewed idea of my life as an adult older-child adoptee. Indeed, a hazard of writing a subject-specific blog which never strays is that it can make it seem as though that is all you do or all you are.

It’s also very rare that media stories featuring foster-care adoptees have anything but a very, very bad or a very, very smaltzy ending. There is either a family massacre or everyone skips off into the sunset. Very few of them bore your socks off.

I therefore decided to write about what was going on in my life even though it wasn’t ADOPTION. But in doing so I realised that adoption is wound up in a lot of what I have been preoccupied with. This hadn’t been immediately obvious because what I have been thinking about is both boring (although important) and also features in the lives of many non-adopted people.

In short, I have been worrying about my parents (for clarification I mean my adoptive parents). They are getting older and I am thinking about what the future holds. The health of one of them is declining and they still have caring responsibilities of their own. I have started to think about how I might – and if it is even possible – support them in their old age. I think that I may need to move closer to them. But how does this fit into my own plans? My partner’s plans? And what will I do if they need a full-time carer? How does this even work financially? What do I do if they need to go into a care home? How does this fit with my own career and family plans? Can I afford it? What on earth do I do?

But that is not all. I have also been worrying about my parents (for clarification I mean my foster parents). One of them is extremely ill and may not be here long – as least in mind. I want to spend more time with them than I can afford in either money or time. It kills me that I can’t stretch myself and also be there.

But I’ve also been worrying about my relatives (for clarification I mean my birth relatives). They are getting older and one of them is very, very ill. They’re going through a bad time. I support them as best I can but there is so much I can’t do. I just can’t do everything.

I feel as though I am trying to think through a million things. I am trying to see into the future in order to discern what I should do. I feel as though I am a hair’s breadth away from responsibilities that could overwhelm me. The sort of responsibility that could compromise my own ability to have a family or career or a life of my own.

Very rarely – if ever – do you see headlines like:

‘Adult adopted from care tries to figure out how to support their adoptive parents in old age whilst also having a career and a family’.

I guess it wouldn’t sell. But this is wound up in foster care and adoption. My parents are my parents because they adopted me. I’m thinking about these things because they adopted me. And now I am doing what people are doing up and down the country – worrying about their ageing parents – because they adopted me.

It’s also wound up with adoption, in my case, because my parents were also quite old when they adopted me. And I’m also thinking about all these things because as a foster-care adoptee I have more family than most. I am in normal, everyday contact with them all – by which I mean a phone call here, a Facebook like there, a visit whenever I can. There is more worry about ill-health, pensions, care plans, and all the rest than there is drama.

This is what adult life and post-adoption relationships with all families looks like for at least one older child adoptee.

It’s also contrary to what many people might think. For example, far from being a liability, I offer more support to my adoptive parents than their birth children do. These things are by no means clear cut!

I sometimes feel, as an adoptee, that I am viewed as a perpetual child. I am not sure why this happens, although it is extremely patronising when it does. My everyday life is filled with the ordinary things of life that the non-adopted would recognise. There are many, many people in the country worrying about the multiple caring responsibilities they face and getting anxious about how their finances and own lives will withstand the pressure. I don’t know how much research is done on the adult lives, post-25, of those who were adopted at puberty, but at least one of them lives quite an ordinary life – whatever that is.

Adoption breakdown

A Guest Post

My adoption has been breaking down for years- in fact, I’m not entirely sure that it was ever cohesive enough in the first place for words like ‘disruption’ and ‘breakdown’ to feel applicable.

My mum hasn’t phoned me for over a year. To be fair, I have seen her, because I have invited, persuaded and gone out of my way to include her in my and indeed her grandchildren’s lives.

But this one fact- that she can’t bring herself to pick up the phone, feels to me like the last in a long line of straws.

Adoption disruption and breakdown is often written about from the perspective of adoptive parents at their wits end after trying everything in their power to keep their children (much wanted, no doubt) in the family fold.  Often in the face of hugely disruptive, destructive and violent behaviour. No one comes to the point of breakdown quickly or lightly.

I was a pretty ok child, relatively speaking and would consider myself and alright adult. I’m muddling through parenting children and enjoying a career I have worked really hard to get.

If I was my parent I would be pretty proud really.

I am my own parent, because the ones that adopted me lost interest early on.

For as far back as I can remember I have tried to forge a relationship with them- particularly my mum- I was always terrified of being left again- that if I didn’t do what made them happy, they would take me back and get another child, a better child .

My parents didn’t want to parent, they wanted children, because that’s what people do. Sadly for them, they couldn’t in the conventional sense have what they wanted, so they adopted my brother and me (one of each, the nuclear dream) attempts to shape us into miniature versions of themselves were often thwarted but eventually my brother has taken over the family business (not what he wanted to do with his life) and I stayed in the mould of education long past when I would have liked to.

My mum has never enjoyed having children, to her, we were just some smaller people who demanded things that she couldn’t give, like time and love. An inconvenience that took her away from her real passions- gardening, baking, arranging the church flowers and watching sport on TV- solitary pursuits for a solitary person- not keen on sharing and quick with her fists when irritated.

My mum recalls my first year with her like this:

“You cried and cried and would only stop squawking when I fed you scrambled eggs” or

“You were a little sod, always up in the night, always wetting yourself”

Bearing in mind, I was a baby, I wonder what she had been expecting or indeed supported to prepare for.

Not for our family, the sharing of amusing anecdotes or “wasn’t it adorable when you….” Always space for a negative though.

Always another bruise on our self esteem.

There were many times in my childhood when I could have phoned social services- reported them, changed the situation, but I didn’t know that it was an option. We put up and shut up.

And on and on into adulthood, the emotional blows keep coming, recently over a pub lunch, my mum casually dropped in mine and my brothers birth names, apropos of nothing, like dropping a grenade onto the table she neither knew nor cared that this might be a ‘thing’ for either of us (my brother has never traced his birth family)

Of course she had told both of us growing up that she knew nothing of our former lives.

I’d like to think that its not out of cruelty that she operates but a kind of lack of self awareness and empathy. She is not the kind of person to get that other people have feelings nor does she think she has to be careful in any of her interactions. She has done an incredible job of pushing me away and this time, I don’t think I’m going to keep hurting myself by going back.

Anonymous