CANDID

Late march of 2012 came around, which marked my 18th birthday.  All I was focused on was what everyone always talked about; the things that made you an adult.  I could by lottery tickets, tobacco, a tattoo, and various other troublesome items.  My mind was consumed by the materialistic things that an 18 year-old is supposed to think about.  

 

But I was allowed to do one more thing when I turned 18: contact my birth mother.

 

Throughout my life my parents always told me that since I was involved in a closed adoption, when I was 18 I could finally contact the woman who gave birth to me.  That day always seemed so far away, so I pushed it aside for years, until it slapped me right in the face.

 

I still remember the moment when my parents sat down with me shortly after the eighteenth March, 29th of my life and my Dad handed me the papers.  At first I had no clue what they were.  All I saw was pages upon pages of faded lined paper with almost illegible script writing covering them.  My dad told me who the author was, and that script immediately looked different.

 

Within the stack were letters and cards for 18 birthdays, written from the woman who gave birth to me.  

 

At first I didn’t know what to think of them.  I had been so concerned with being an 18 year-old that I had forgotten my origin of birth was supposed to catch up with me right about now.  As if it wasn’t enough, my dad threw me another curveball. 

 

“Now, if you decide you want to, you can write her a letter back,” he said.

 

My head spun.  Talk about a big decision.  

 

While looking down at the papers, and thinking about what I could possibly say to her, it all suddenly became real.

 

Throughout my whole life I have built the image of my birth mother in my head.  Like the Mr. Potato Head of my life, I took the bits and pieces that I know about me and that I wanted in her and actually created my own mother.  She was only as real as that image plastered in my brain.  She only existed in that exact way to my perception.  No one would ever know this woman I made except for me.  And, because she was the woman to give birth to me, she became a great friend whom I was always familiar with.  Whenever something confused me about who I was, I would simply alter the thought of her to answer that question.  It was the easy way out, but it worked.

 

But as I read the letters and cards word by word, that image in my head suddenly became real.  No longer did I think of this woman only as a self-created thought, but as a living person, dwelling somewhere close by, with hands that can write on a piece of paper.  

 

My thumb rubbed the ink that had been given years to soak into the off-white paper.  As I touched it, the paper became a window in front of me.  This was the first physical object I had ever received from my birth mother, and there was only ink and paper standing between us.  I felt connected to her through that window in a way I had never felt before.

 

That same night, as I was alone in my bedroom, I thought about whether I was going to write to her.  My heart told me I had to, that there was no questioning it.  I owed it to this woman to reach out to her and give her the reassurance that her baby boy that she had to give away was okay and thinking about her.

But what does one say within a letter like this?  She may be the woman responsible for my life, but she is also a total stranger.  I knew nothing about her, I had never said a word to her, and vice versa.  Where do I draw the line in this letter between friendly enough to seem like her birth child, and not too friendly as to come off like we actually know each other?

 

So, like I do for any other writing of mine, I just wrote.  I wrote too much.  I told her everything, from my first memory to my last.  I told her about the sports I play, the places I love to go, and the accomplishments I made.  I told her my favorite book and movie.  I told her every last detail about who I was, because that is what she wanted to know?

 

Wasn’t it?

 

I read through the four pages of facts, and it was just four pages of facts, four pages of things that anyone could have told her about me.  What the hell do I say to her? I thought.  I owe her more than facts after eighteen years.

 

So I thought about what I wanted to know about her.  Sure, I wanted to know what sports she likes and the things she has done in her life, but what did I really want to know?  

 

I wanted to know what she thinks of me now.  Does she think about me?  Does she care about me?  Does she love me?  Does she regret giving me up for adoption?  I wanted her to answer all of that, plus more, so I tailored my letter around that.

 

I began with the simple sentence, “One thing I want you to know, though, is that I think about you all the time.”  Alongside the four pages of facts, I told her the truth about what I thought of her; that, until recently, she was only a thought within my head, but that thought was that of a truly remarkable woman.  I concluded my letter referring to that image by saying the following:

 

“This image is how I think of you, and because of the life you have provided for me, that image is of the most caring and loving woman in the world.  Thank you for allowing me to be where I am today.  Though my life so far has been one filled with countless questions, it is a great one.  I know it was meant to be, and I could not be more thankful for that.  I cannot wait to hear back from you.”

 

This time, as I read through the letter, I was happy.

 

Now I felt like I said something meaningful, something she would want to hear, something that is worthy of 18 years of waiting.  Without any more hesitation, I pressed print, and with the help of my Dad I sent the letter through to the adoption agency who would forward it to her.

Just like that I had finally talked to one of the most important women in my life.

 

 

• • •

 

Months later, as I sat on my family room couch watching TV with my brother, Ian, my sad slapped an envelope down on my lap.  Stamped on it was a generic looking stamp of my address and my name.  I opened it, and within was a second envelope with nothing but “Connor” written on it.  

I immediately recognized the script handwriting on the front.  My Dad must not have, though, because he didn’t give it a second glance.  The Cavaliers were up by 3 with 20 seconds left. 

 

The first thing I thought about was how this letter was different than the others.  The letters my Dad had given me on my 18th birthday had been addressed to my parents.  But this one had my name on it.  That meant that the words inside were directed towards me.

 

I was holding the first words my birth mother would ever say directly to me.

 

Not wanting to make a big deal about it, I got up from the couch and took the second sealed envelope to my bedroom where I would sit on my bed fiddling with the crinkled corners for 30 minutes.

 

Millions of thoughts ran through my mind as I held the words from this stranger who was by birth mother.  As excited and nervous as I was, part of me didn’t want to read what she had to say.

 

I knew that the words that followed would answer all the questions I’ve had for eighteen years.  The very foundation of who I really am, where I came from, and why I am the way I am, will be answered in a few short paragraphs.  I have been asking for these answers for years, but now I didn’t know if I was ready for that. 

I had grown close with the thought of her within my head to the point where I had almost forgotten there was a real version of her somewhere out there.  I had gotten to know her only because I made her just like me.  She had become a friend of mine.

 

But if I continued to read the letter I was holding in my hand, I would lose that imaginary friend.  Not because she would leave me, but because the harsh truth of reality would tell me she isn’t actually real, which was the constant dilemma I have battled within my head for years.  All those pieces I tediously created and put together would prove to be false, therefore destroying her image.  Could I really handle putting a face to a name and throw away almost 18 years of contentment?  Is learning about the real thing worth losing the thought of her I built throughout the entirety of my life?

 

I broke the seal and began to read.  This time I saw no script, just the even typed Cambria Body down the page.

 

“Dear Connor,

 

You can’t even imagine the joy that your letter brought me!  I have anxiously been waiting and praying for 18 years, hopeful but not knowing if you would want to reach out to me.  All I can say from what you’ve told me is I could not have asked for more for you…”

 

The first words the woman responsible for my birth ever said directly to me.  The real one.  Not the self-created one.  An actual person took the time to actually write down these words, and those very words would explain the questions and uncertainties I have held and accepted within my imagination for 18 years.

The image if the self-created woman began to fog in my head, and a new one formed.  Piece by piece, replacing the old one.  I didn’t know if I liked it.  Should I continue to read?

 

My impatience, the impatience that I would soon learn I inherited from my birth mother, took over, and I read