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Here is an article released today on the New York Times.

Link here

I will comment on  this later, as I am still gathering my thoughts and analysis on this piece. However my initial thoughts to this article are two things.

1) 2012. You’re having a laugh.

2) Common words used throughout: Embarrassment, shame, stigma, and disgrace. These words used to describe adoption are great indicators as to how we, the adoptees feel. It is no wonder that such ideals are passed on to us. I guess it starts at the top.

Gripped with anxiety I wander through this life. Day to day avoiding those things which leave me cold and numb with the fear of what if. No amount of Xanax could cure what ails me for I think it is all in my head, my own doing. Always on the door step staring at the knob, knowing what awaits if I walk through the door, I stand frozen and hunched, until no longer can I bear the pressure and the voices, I turn away from what could be. So yet another promise left unfulfilled, and I can’t taste it.

Voices of expectation and potential cluster and group inside, and that is all I can hear, that is the source of this anxiety. I was supposed to be this or I was expected to become that. So I shrink. Withering on this vine refusing to expose my true nature, whilst the fruits around me who suckled from the same source grow and flourish and become all the things I dreamed to be. The accomplishments and the grand life I was told I would lead slowly escape me and that nectar that is success abandons me.

This is not perfect, I am not perfect. But I am not like all the rest. Like some ape faced piglet I am made to be different, defected from the norm. It was reasoned that I would be the same, that this melting pot would absorb me just like all the rest, that my differences were not unique. But so strange this sequence, so alien is this strain, that my form is not recognized. I feel omitted from the heard and the jackals that are of my own creation will soon devour me.

I was to succeed under this sun, and so by all levels of reasoning I should rise up and take my mantle. But I am my own variable, my personal X-factor. I chose not to climb the stairs that were placed before me, instead opting for a blind stroll down a path of unknown, but maybe that should have been taken into account. Maybe someone should have reasoned what it is like to live life carrying this heavy pack, alone in an environment where many hours are spent with nothing but the weight and the expectation. Yet even knowing this all I find it hard to place blame, because a man, a reasonable adult, does not look back in anger, he takes what he has and makes it work.

Then maybe I am not a man, maybe theres is no shred of reason in me. Because surely this isn’t working and I don’t know how to get a move on. Every moment not spent at the pinnacle of greatness is a moment I regret. Another point in time that I look back and die just a little bit more knowing I can’t recoup those moments.

I crucify myself for not being the best, for not achieving at the very least what has been laid out for me. And for a while I was able to let go of the expectation and just exist. Not caring one way or the other, not worrying about this or that or him or her. I am probably just not good enough. The reason I wanted to be the best was to show you. I wanted to go back one day and be the little boy I should have been. I wanted to kneel down before you, hands cupped, holding up what I had done. I wanted to show you all that I have conquered and overcome. I wanted you to be that proud mother who looked in awe at what her little boy had achieved and for you to be pleased. But to do this I had to be the best. I swore as a child that I would not go back, I would not find you until I was the epitome of success. I wanted you to be shamed and sorrowed and full of regret at what you had given up. I wanted you to see what you gave up on.  But I’ve changed.

The child in me still wants to shame you, still wants to turn my back, but that child is slowly dieing. A new boy is emerging from the shadows and he is more kind, more simplistic. This little boy has nothing to hold up to you. He has very little to show in hopes that you will be awed. This new little boy just wants you to hold him close, to return him to the loving embrace that he has never known, to the place his heart has yearned for all along. He wants the weight of expectation and the burden of loss to be lifted. But most of all he just wants you to know he exists.

I pray that somewhere in your mind and most importantly in your heart you think of me. I like to think that I derived this neurotic tendency from you and that because of this you long me for me in the same way I long for you. I don’t hate you. I never have. I hope you know this to be true. I know I am spiteful and I rue many things about my life, but that is only out of frustration, not malice towards you or your decision.

Redefining success is hard. Is a life measured by the names on diplomas or balances on bank statements? Cars, houses, families, boats, countries stamped on passports. Are achievements measured by titles on business cards or awards and merits received? For me success would be finding you, but as always I stand in my own way. Afraid of what I might achieve or how high I might climb, I stop myself dead in my tracks.

I just wish I could taste it.

When you are young you are afraid(or not) of a lot of things. Spider, snakes, the world running out of chocolate milk, monsters under the bed. Oh wouldn’t that be nice now. To return to the days when all you had to fear was creepy crawly creatures or the supply of sweets and snacks. As we grow older and develop into bigger more sophisticated creatures our fears too grow more developed and complex (kind of/sometimes). Long departed are our carefree days when our worries were easily solved and our minds put to rest. As I child I never knew fear as I do now. I was scared of breaking my arm if I fell from a tree too high (oh the silly dares you take on as a kid), I feared that I might get bitten by a cotton mouth snake (that by the way are not indigenous to my area), I was afraid that there was a man hiding in the walls and shadows of my house that would come and take me away.

Now I am older, I am wiser, I am more discerning or so I think. Snakes still scare me, but only in that I am startled by their presence in the woods when I walk. I have actually never broken a bone in my body (aside from the ones in my feet from years of soccer) and I don’t jump off roof tops or from high tree branches like I used to so breaking anything from foolish misjudgments seems unlikely, so needless to say I am not scared of that. I am most certainly not afraid of people hiding in my walls, this fear was substantiated from a weird movie I saw when I was way too young, and now I am confident I could beat the piss out of anyone lurking in the shadows of my home. Ahhh sweet relief, all of my childhood fears are resolved, well at least the silly ones are.

But the things I do fear as an adult are much more complicated and less easily dispelled from those I harbored as a child. Now I fear the cold, angry, distressed man I could become. I fear not having a set identity, but rather being a jack off all trades eager to please everyone, that push over type image. I fear being lost between two worlds, the white American and the Korean blood. I fear not having family, either my adoptive, my birth family, or a family all my own that I make one day with someone I love. I fear not being loved. I fear not being understood, mostly these feelings inside me that very few seem to pay heed to or have the patience to try or the ones that I keep locked up that few people know exist within. These fears of mine are not easily dispelled. Not like when I was a child and petting a docile snake, or leaping from tree branches, or turning on all the lights as to assure no one was lurking in the shadows; I could get over these fears, I could conquer them. These fears are of a different nature, they take time and experience.

As a child I always feared being different, I loathed standing out. Now the thought of being stuck in this place eats at me even more. I fear our suburbs, our super markets, our chain restaurants. I become anxious when I walk through our sterile malls, I bit my nails when I am at Cheesecake Factory, I smoke till my lings hurt when I am at the bar. Ever since I was a child I realized this picture wasn’t right and I feared that it may never be. I just want the eyes in the pictures I take to be more chinky, I want the hair to be darker, I want to not be the only one giving the peace sign. But I am afraid that this will never happen. The nurture has been branded so deep inside of me that I am at a point of no return.

I hate this identity that I am stuck with for the rest of my natural life. That I will always be someone who was given away, someone who was bought. At least hookers choose their Johns, when my body was sold I had no choice. Like walking through the red light district of Amsterdam someone sized me up and decided to have a go. I fear that this will always be with me. Forever I will be the object of someone else desire. I will fill that emptiness for someone whom was not to really be mine. But who will fill mine. Surely I could not ask someone to do what was so wrongly done to me. Some say it was fate, some say it was love, some say it was God. I don’t know whom or what it was, but I know I shall never be what I desire and that scares me.

I am afraid that I am small and lost in all of this. There is no road map, no guide on how to navigate this whole situation. There are so few of us and our voice is little more than a whisper in the night. I fear being attacked and ostracized for this speak, what more could be taken from me that has not already been taken. How much more are we to give and why would you even ask knowing that we cling to such humble strands as it is. There was a wave of you whom started this and gave us a voice and an outline on how to work though it, but the system and the circumstance was always changing and I fear I wont be heard, that the landscape is no longer recognizable. I fear that I am only one and thus out casted from the collective. I know many, I met my share, all ages, both sexes, but I still stood out, even amongst those whom I shared the essentials with. I fear that there aren’t more guys and girls my age whom feel like I do, thus I keep my voice even lower still because I don’t want to be outed even more than I already am. Has the fog become so thick and the procedure so well honed that you don’t even know you’re in it. Why did I leave in the first place, how am I the only one who sees what this is. I fear someone like you won’t come by these parts ever again and still I will be left lonely. I fear crying too loud because someone might hear me and know this pain. I wish no one in this world ever know this for themselves, that would truly be too cruel.

I don’t know what else to say other than I am scared of being alone in this. Where are my kin? Where are the ones who see the world in the same shades I do. Where is my best friend whom can hold my hand as we shine the flash light underneath the bed and scare away all the monsters lurking in the darkness. Where is the buddy who will jump off the bridge and into the river only to emerge from the water to signal that everything is safe. Where is the companion who will emerge from the dark cave and signal that everything is alright and that through the darkness there is treasure. Why did you have to go so early. Now I am left to cower underneath the covers, this plastic orange flashlight the only things keeping me sane. If I can nourish this light just a little while longer, before the batteries run out maybe day will break and I can at last come out from underneath my protective dwelling. Pray that Energizer does not lie and that these double A’s will keep going, because I don’t know how long the night will last or if morning will ever come.

I fear doing all of this alone. I wish you could have checked underneath the bed at least once before you shut the door.

With each keystroke I leave a little bit more of myself. With each drag another portion of me dies. Another night goes by and I sleep very little. I toss and I turn, trying to find a comfortable position, but it is not until my my mind, all but exhausted from running about wildly gives up that I fade into sleep. The hour is too late and my responsibilities come too soon. The whine of a small fan is the lullaby I know, the distraction to my wandering thought. I am so tired and this is my existence.

Someone, anyone please wake me up. I waddle through this mist, with my eyes closed tightly afraid of what I might see if I open them. I am so in need of rest but I don’t want to sleep anymore for I fear what it brings to bear. If the world that I should happen to gaze upon is anything like that in my head then I dare not open my eyes. Is this all in my head? Does the realm of what is real and concrete conspire with the world inside my mind to make all sorts of weird and contorted shapes. I dare not wake, I mustn’t, but I am so tired and this is not sleep; this is not rest.

When I remove this mask and place it at my bed side the the demons are released. Schizophrenia is its handle, so many temperaments it wields. All of the people I have been accustomed to know the display and compete for reign over me. This is why there is no rest at night. I am no longer the happy go lucky friend, the eager employee, the nurturing and inquisitive companion, the wise cracking jester, the obedient son, the longing little boy, the scared child, the fiery and angry KAD, the wise prophet, the eloquent fashionista, the man searching, I am none of these things and all of them at once. I own not one of these things and my diversity is not heralded.

I decide to do what I love most and that is sit under the night sky. The warm glow of orange and red dangle from the end of my mouth and I exhale slowly towards the heavens. Little shards of me fall to ground as I flick away the ash, these are pieces of me. Even in the dark of night, far beyond my vision in the black of the woods I hear life stirring. I think a family of deer mat down the long grass and fancy themselves a bed for the night or a borough of fox cubs play about whilst their mother looks for food, but it is so black that I can not be sure. All I hear is the noise and the hope of life within the darkness, hope is that which I can not see. The only light now comes from the tip of my cigarette and and that is always fleeting. These small tools don’t slow the pace or muffle the voices, but it is habit now and I am so accustomed to it. And it seems that even with this I leave a little more behind.

I lock up for the night and creep slowly back into bed, the background of my computer reads “For a Tortured Soul” with an outline of two men standing against a fading sun, their hands clutching swords. The small fan is still buzzing and I pray that I find rest tonight. Tossing and turning it doesn’t come as the thoughts jockey for position. I find every excuse to stay cocooned there and yet every other excuse to stay awake.

I want to find you find you and ask why you did it, why was I given up. I picture it always. You standing there wondering who I am. Despite our physical similarities you do not recognize me, you struggle through your memory to discover who this man standing before you with wet eyes is, but it doesn’t come. Choking and sniffling I struggle to tell you who I am, but you do not know English and I know no Korean, so instead you just stand there a bit bewildered. There is sympathy in your eyes, not the kind you would have had for a son, but the kind of sympathy you hold for a normal human being who you view to be obviously pained, and this is what hurts the most. In this vision I wish you knew me, I wish that a signal that is inherent  in our shared genes would be set off and you would not view me as a tortured soul no different than a stranger off the street, but as the infant you gave up so many years ago. I wish for you too see through my weeping eyes and understand the pain I have had to endure for you and for those who raised me. I want you to see my nose, my mouth, my ears, and realize they came from you. That this sulk before you is your boy. But this is only the way it is in my head. I dare not open open my eyes.

Entangled in this vision is glimpses of my family. The mother I have hurt, the father I have ashamed, the sister who wants me to be whole, the brother whom I hold no regard. There is more anger and sadness and frustration. For as I seek out that from which I came a widening gap is formed between myself and those who I have come to know. The lack of communication is apparent as the sheer look of bewilderment and shame lights their faces. If I could only tell you how I feel then maybe you would not be so upset. Maybe it wouldn’t feel like I am betraying you or that this is goodbye. I know you have done your best, and perfection is not a plateau but a far off vision that we run towards. I know there has been love in abundance too, but even this is not always enough to nourish a soul. Oh if I could only tell you these things but I can not. I can not bear the disappointment any longer. I have tried so very hard for you but this life is mine and at this point in the journey I think it best that I navigate it alone. I know you will always be there, but it is your terms which I can no longer live up to. There will be very little sleep tonight.

The sadness is connected to the anger through a mist of frustration, but this mist does not cloud, rather it illuminates a path between two raging storms. It builds and it builds as it guides me along the way. Leading me to a tempest of power and emotion. I realize that anger and hatred are not real power but delusions of grandeur, yet inevitably I end up here thrashing around this pool, this quagmire. It grows thicker and its binding power holds tight to my skin, fueled constantly by the mist of frustration. The futility I feel in this adopted existence. This is where my brain ends up and it must be when the mind has become spent from fighting through the muck and the grabbing hands that I finally lay to rest. If only this rest could be forever more, but fleeting it is, like a dream had but not remembered.

When I awake my body is stiff and sore, a result of the struggle for power. Hardened and in need of comfort I rise. If I only knew love and compassion I might be spared this cycle. I cry inside, eyes still shut. I know that this path leads to a place where those who travel it are swallowed up and forgotten. But I have already been forgotten. The day I was given up I was forgotten as a human being. Forgotten as a being that needs love and affection. Forgotten as someone who has needs and desires. This path leaves my true intent lost to the rest of the world and no kind of flare or GPS could find me. Yet still I keep my eyes closed to the world outside and pray to be found.

No one voice has come to the forefront and yet again I am forced to put on the mask before before I even consider walking out the door. Maybe that is why I have such a  big head, maybe I was meant to carry around all of these identities. This ability to dispense them freely and quickly like a business man does his card at a convention. I suppose I need all of this space to fit them all. But I don’t subscribe to fate so I suppose this large head of mine is just another genetic result that you won’t recognize.

I want both of you to know me. The one who spawned me and the one who nurtured me. I want you to understand clearly my intent. I want to rest.

I by rule try to stay away form AP/PAP blogs. I also by rule try to stay out of discussions with AP/PAP’s on other peoples blogs and forums. I guess I really just don’t want to be involved with the whole foray of having to justify my feelings or convey my point of view, because really why should I have to. These are my feelings, I try to own them as best I can, but at the end of the day I am not here to help AP’s or PAP’s try to do a better job than my parents did.

I want to say first and foremost, my parents did a pretty spectacular job raising me. I mean if I do say so myself I am pretty stand up guy, and I attribute a lot of my most becoming characteristics to them. However I will say that they have a lot of work to do in understanding who I am becoming as it relates to my feeling on adoption, family, adulthood, loss, etc. etc. I also want to point out that despite their parenting prowess I really do believe that they never saw a lot of this “angry adoptee” stuff coming. So really I don’t fault or blame them for not understanding what is going on with me, but, but really they should be doing a bit more than sweeping my feelings and my views on the whole lot under the rug. Yes I am older now, yes I am pretty much a full fledged adult, but parenting is something that lasts a lifetime. And to think that I am the same person at 22 that I was at 12 would be a major oversight and a bit naive if you ask me.

This is definitely a new age for AP’s and PAP’s . Unlike my parents who had no internet, no blogs, no forums to read from, this new crop of AP’s has a plethora of resources to take advantage of. However the more and more I read(although I try not to read AP blogs) the more and I more I am convinced that nothing will change. My feelings on it are never really swayed as to think that AP’s get it and that another child out there will be spared the pain and agony that I have so wonderfully discovered. I think that despite the outpouring of love and affection a parent gives and even with the application of culture, diversity, and discovery, it is my opinion that there are inherent problems that reside within every adoptee, whether they are aware of it or not. And with that I must say bravo to those adoptees who have enough strength to suppress the questions, and the pain. My hat is off to the proverbial hairdresser’s cousins adopted daughter, and your friends high school sweethearts BFF’s brother who are totally “cool” with being adopted.

But what is really on my tits currently, and this comes from reading some AP’s blogs and their comments on adoptees blogs is this feeling I get that AP’s are just the best shit since sliced bread. This statement may come off as crude and undeveloped but I really could give a toss. I call it as I see and it and the way I see it is despite all the posturing of being proper and the faining to be enlightened and open, I just see the dross. I see AP’s touting the strides they are making to adjust their kids to being different, I see them putting on display their newly bought little angles that they put in demeaning little t-shirts. I see them attack adoptee’s for having a voice and for feeling that way that A LOT of us do. All we really want as adoptee’s is to have a voice and a place where we can find solace in others, knowing that someone understands our feelings. And that is what I percieve as a problem witha  lot of AP’s. Despite your words and your posts we will always feel as though you are intruding on our space. I will always feel that AP’s see the win-win side of adoption even when they say they see our pain and our struggle, you don’t and you can’t. I believe that you only see it as the love you’re giving and the life you’re providing for a child. It is almost like God complex and it is driving me crazy. Maybe some of you are doing the “right things” and if you believe so then fine, I don’t want to hear about it. Just leave it out and let us have our little community.

I want to finish this by saying shame on you for expecting so much of us. For asking us to take on yet another responsibility. That we are expected to be the voice and the knowledge for all you new AP’s out there and at the same time we are blasted for being honest and open about our feelings. We do as best we can in the only way we know how. What we experience is still somewhat uncharted waters and we are just trying to make it work. So get off it and leave us be.

Note: To all AP’s who might want to post on this. Go ahead bring the noise, defend yourself. But keep in mind I write this for me and I write this for my fellow adoptee’s. It is not for you and I never posture myself as any sort medium for AP’s. Again I do this for me and for those who share my situation. Oh and don’t give me your pitty or your *hugs* i don’t need them, not from you.

Now I have never been a friend of “man’s best friend”; dogs and I just don’t seem to get on very well. I tried, I mean as a child we always had a dog or two and I was more than obliged to try and befriend them, but it just never happened. I guess some people just don’t get along with dogs very well. But try as I might there was always something in my subconscious that made me feel as if I really didn’t like dogs.

I think it is the idea of dog ownership and aquisition that has always rubbed me so wrong. I have come to equate dog ownership to that of adoption. I know they are our loyal compainions and they are our so called “best friends” but when I look at owner and their dogs I become sick.

Most often we take these young pups, right fromm their litter, ripped from their mothers care and nourishment and for a fee we place them in our homes. We train them to “behave” in a certain manner and they are expected to oblige, because we provide for them, we feed them, we give them a place to live. But what was so bad about living with the creature that gave them birth, what is right about placing these pups in an environment so alien to them, without any sort support of recognizable presence. To force these young creatures to adapt and conform to their master seems somewhat wrong.

Now I know there are people out there who will take my equation to human adoption and dog ownership as a bit harsh. But this is how it feels to me. We fill a need by going out into market and finding a body to occupy the empty space within us. But scared puppies long for the love and nurture from their mother, these wrinkled little masses shiver in fear of being somewhere that is so unknown. And when they don’t accept their new “masters” and act out of accordance to our standards we put them in shelters, or worse we put them down. We think these “naughty” dogs are the bad picks of the litter and wish that we had chosen a different one from the breeder and maybe we should have done a bit more homework as opposed to picking based on the cute cuddly face that sat before us.

I guess it is just no wonder adoption still exists in this manner when as a society we perform a similar level of it with dogs.

note: this post is an evolving line of thought.

Needs?

I suppose I never needed you, either of you, any of this. It was more the other way around, you needed me. Why? Well the reason will probably always escape me. That and I think your answers will no appease me.  And what you had hoped would be forever was in fact quite brief. To look back at the smiling round face, the wisps of straight black hair, and those deep dark eyes, you are left wanting. It is as if the smallish playful child has dissipated, vanished into thin air. What’s left is a smoldering, scornful heap. But I will make no concessions. I don’t think I have any reason to feel sorry, not the least bit for you.

What you needed was a child. Someone to share your existence, to love and nurture. Maybe to advance your prestigious name. You needed validation. However I maintain that motives alone no longer interest me. The fact and matters are all but too irrelevant and I am not to be concerned. No. How could I be at this point. Really I have come to see what it is that I need.

My needs are deep seated and relentless. Starving from the deprivation of a 22 year Iust and hunger for what I shall never have. It is the knowledge that is kept in our cells, bound in our DNA the truth that is in the touch. The simple recognition and familiarity of skin. The secret that lies in wait throughout the tiniest parts of our make up. That is what I need. The comfort that all new born babies know the second they are held by their mothers. The security that is gained by prolonged hugs and gentle caresses. The simple affirmation that I came from someone. No, something. That is what all creatures need. Even the soul understands this truth. But a perversion was made and I can never satisfy that simplest of needs.

But alas I shall ever be denied that basic need. For time is lost with each and every moment. And was it all preordained or were these lost chances brought about by choice. Is this god or destiny or fate?

I smear the past and mash the memory. Grinding, scratching, pummeling the essence of who I thought I was. But what is left, it is the now. It is me I say, but in only a whisper because I fear what I see. And I do not wish to breath anymore life into this beast. I am scared more and more with each and every day that goes by, but at least I wake to see another day.

I am trash. Disposable. Picked up at your connivence. Traded and bartered for. Written off when I don’t perform as advertised. I would equate my current existence to fast food. Used to fulfill a need in a short sighted situation and put in the bin when I have satisfied. However down the down the line when you have become overweight from suckling oh my existence  and  repeated exposure causes you indigestion, I then am a bane to you and thrown out. I won’t deceive that is what I feel like. Cheap, fast, and worthless.

And I always thought I was a superstar. I believed in my own hype, as if I would somehow transcend my own legend. Where are the flashing lights and the clicking of camera shutters and the cheers, where did all those things go. Maybe I was living in my own imaginary world, desperately trying to cover the truth outside my cave. i think that maybe I was lying  or maybe I was told lies.  Am I what they say I am? Did I step out into the world as it has existed around me, the one I just neglected. Is this how it really is.

I really am quite scared now. This darkness is very powerful and I can feel its heartbeat inside me. Day by day I slip farther into it, going deeper into its embrace. It coddles me and encourages all of the bad thoughts I have been having. But even now there seems no place left to go but down, down to where I won’t feel anything anymore.

I know they say you can’t find solutions without knowing the problem first until. I guess thats why I fall deeper into this. I do not know exactly where all of this comes from. This beast stand in front of my like a mountain that extends high up into the clouds and I know not how to approach it. I feel like I am going to black out soon, there is just too much. Everything twist in my head and my vision is blurry, but at this point all I can do is write what comes out, regardless of how incoherent it is. Don’t they do this in creative writing classes? Just write whatever comes out and don’t stop and only at the end will you come back and sort it. i guess that is what I am doing, but I do not feel so compelled to continue.

Ahhhhhh!!!!! Just shut up and listen. And if you don’t get it well then………..fucking try harder yeah. 

 

These were the word that ran through my head, the ones that were left unsaid to you. I wanted to get angry and scream and shout and have another argument; hell I was angry, still am. That’s why I’m at one in the bloody morning writing this out. But I stayed reserved once again. Kept it all bottled so that I wouldn’t cause a disturbance. Because what is one more shouting match huh? Keeping quite is better for both of us. Plus I can just hear the conversation you and your brother are going to have tomorrow regarding my ill will or ungratefulness towards being adopted. I know he is your brother, but come on he is a fucking mug. He is one of the most screwed up people I know (well besides that messed up offspring of yours that I call my brother). I wish he would just got home already, I mean isn’t he married after all. Or did he turn that to shit too.

 

Anyway back at it. So yeah ummmm…….congratulations for making me feel more strange that I already do. Your little talks really have a way of just digging at me, right on the soft mushy part thats already open and sore from me running over it again and again in my head. It’s probably because you just don’t see why I hurt, and when you generalize and marginalize what I am feeling inside it makes it hurt even more. I know you will never be able to see what I see or feel what I am feeling, but don’t make me feel like I am wrong for being this way. I sure as hell didn’t ask for it. I don’t want to be so torn up inside trying to figure out who I am in relation to race, heritage, family, blood, identity, etc etc. If I didn’t have to have the feeling I wouldn’t. Believe you me buster, this shit is whack. Ha. 

 

Now I know I didn’t turn out like the other Korean adoptees your friends bought. Sorry I guess I am just defective. Sorry I couldn’t go to MIT on a full scholarship(even though the family has more money than God, but hey full scholarship, now that just showing off how great yellow babies are) and be rocket scientists like the two brothers the family down the street picked up. But you know how much I hate Massachusetts and that stupid Boston accent, I mean my ears practically bleed when I hear it. I apologize for not being a pre-law major then changing my mind to become teacher instead like the other KAD boy down the street (you always seemed real proud of him). But you told me I couldn’t be a teacher, that I am too harsh and I would be mean to the students. Ya know I really wanted to be a history teacher. Sorry I guess I am just too wrapped up in “being different and not fitting in” as you so eloquently like to put it. 

 

Oh and excuse me if I somehow miss your analogy about your brother going through a lot of hard times and difficulty and making it to the other side. Like I said he is a septic walrus cunt and may god strike me dead if making it through difficult times means ending up like that sorry sod. Because what I am “going through” is like nothing either you or he has ever experienced. 

 

Oh I’m sorry were you and your brother relinquished at birth? No, grandma and grandpa lived in the house next to ours, in fact you bought it for them so they could be close. That was sweet, I sure wish I could live next to the two people that birthed me. Were you and your brother sent off as infants to live in a place where your aesthetic is strikingly different than 99% of the community, lets say Africa for arguments sake. Nope I don’t think you can check that box in our list of “hard stuff my brother went through and made it out alright”. I could go on like this but I know your a busy man with a short attention span for yet another one of my adoption rants. (But hey let me let you in on a little secret. I actually just want you to listen. I want you to understand. I want your help because I am scared and I hate feeling this way.)

 

Oh and by the way don’t ever fucking say “we all have our difficulties, you just need to get over it”. I’ll get over it when I’m bloody dead. Only then will God himself be able to pry “this” from my cold lifeless heart. All of this is going to my grave. I hope that one day soon I will be able to walk side by side with this pain and understand it for what it is. I very much want to be able to live a “normal” life, but even I know this is something that I will never be able to just “get over”. For and old man you sure and naive. 

 

Let me just say one more thing. When ever you drop that marginalizing get over it bull shit, all you’re really doing is edging me closer to the point where I will walk away and sever all ties with this “family”. Hell I might even legally change my name back to the ones the foster folks gave me. 

 

Baik, Sung-Kyun…………..Sounds more authentic don’t you think. 

 

Well I sure am glad I started this blog. At least I don’t have to keep quite in here. Phewwww.

What makes family? What binds me to the people I call Mom and Dad? What is the truly makes people stay together?

For an adoptee this is a tough questions. Most of us are brought up believing that it’s not blood or genes or looks that make a family. We are told it’s the love that our moms and dads, or moms, or dads have for us that makes us a family. The ideal that love conquers all boundries and despite or obvious difference we are in fact part of a family.

The fact that we are bought and sold like any other consumer good, the fact that we come with paper work and documents like that of a new car, the fact that we are not connected physically or genealogically, all these things don’t matter, because there is love. And desire, lest we not forget that. The desire of our AP’s to parent another being makes us a family. Right?

Well all those things matter to me. The fact that my brother is blatant bigot makes me want nothing to do with you and your family. The fact that I possess none of your traits makes me reject this idea of family. The fact that by default I am bound to you because I was bought. I have become increasingly suspicious over this whole family idea. I mean it is if I am indebted to you for the rest of my life for taking me in and making me part of your family. Well frankly I ain’t havin’ it.

I owe you nothing and I will not be guilted. I am not bound to you and I owe you nothing. I had no choice as to what happened to me, to be honest I would have much preferred to rot in a place where I look and speak like everyone else than, waste away in angst in a place where I just don’t belong.

The fact that you say the same thing to me when I try and explain my feelings as you did when I bought you that new computer. You just don’t get it and you throw your hands up and walk away. You are resigned to the fact that there are things you don’t understand and make no effort to understand.

Wheeling and dealing in human being is never a wise proposition regardless of how noble the intent is. Human beings were never meant to be bought and sold like commodities. Once you put a price on a persons head you are marginalizing that person down to the level of any ordinary material good. But we are more complicated than that. We live, we breath, we think, we act with a free will.

These feelings that I harbor are not wrong and it is negligent for you to make me feel as though they are unjust.

Also as a quick side note: Fuck you “Sex and the City” and “Then she found me” both movies in which Asian adoptees are viewed as fashionable accessories for affluent white folk. Shame on you. And piss off creators of spell check function everywhere. “Adoptee” is a word so don’t underline it in red every time I use it.

Note: This is a post I have been sitting on for a while now and I just want to get it out of my drafts page. It is choppy to say the least, but this is a topic that I have been having an increasing amount of trouble with lately. This will most likely be edited many times.

So I have been thinking a lot lately, mostly about myself. This is not unusual as I spend a lot of my time immersed in my own little world inside of my head. Many sleepless nights and unproductive days are wished away to a secluded room where the only sound is of the self pacing back and forth muttering back and forth to myself.

Thoughts are usually focused around the pain that I harbor inside. From different angles I approach this darkness, this shame. I cower at these stark entities that tower over me, shivering and immobilized by the fear. Alone in this place I wonder if it is normal or if I were to somehow escape would I cross paths with people who have been in this situation or have felt this way. Yes I wonder if maybe this is how it is supposed to be. But maybe it can be different and maybe there is a way away from this solitude.

Much criticism has been flung in my direction lately. Angry people present cold harsh tones merited towards my behavior. My distance, my flight, my seemingly lack of interest. And I could yell and scream and implore that they step inside this lonely place into which I escape. See if for themselves and feel what I have been feeling for a long time now. But no one seems to want to walk hand in hand with me through these dark quarters. I don’t blame them.

Escape……….what a funny choice of word. Escape usually implies a desertion from that which is not favorable and an assent to a better place. Escape to this place? This hard, cold, jagged place. I suppose it is not escape then more of a sentence. A term that I serve shackled up and bound to. It is of no wonder that no one wants to move along side me. No one would choose something so cruel and unusual. Doesn’t the Geneva Convention have some law against punishments like this?

Thats the thing about being a KAD isn’t it. We hurt and we pain over so many things, but always in silence and in seclusion. Whether it be fear of hurting our AP’s or an inability of closeness or fear of admitting our vulnerability, it’s always ours to carry. Like a large oak tree we posses a hefty core or trunk of burdens and from this core stems out many roots and branches. Some of which are plainly visible some of which are deep rooted and hidden to the plain eye. And even if we tackle the core and remove the trunk even down to the stump there is always roots that reach out and stay seeded and buried.

More metaphor’s, there is always more metaphor’s of what it is like to live like this, to be a KAD. But never any solutions or reprieve from these feelings. Is there anyone out there that can give me answers to any of this. I am scared because I know that for each and every one of us out there despite our similarities we each have come from a unique set of circumstances. So as I scour this TRA landscape I increasingly garner the idea that I may not find any satisfactory resolution for all of these negative feelings.

I just wish that I could make it all go away. That I could be alright for just one day. That I could last a time without having to drag more cigarette smoke or drink more alcohol. I hope that one day I wont feel the guilt of having to lead two lives, and keep up the facade of being happy and well adjusted. I do well for myself or so you think, but you try wearing this mask everyday. Try holding back and holding in all of the emotions I have rampaging around inside of me. Try hating yourself for something of which you had no control and no say over. For fuck sake just try being a minority in a majority. It is not easy.

I would like to be more objective and look at this with an even eye, but I can’t. I want to end this post with hope, but there is none, at least not right now. Increasing the volume won’t work, I guess they just won’t understand. Maybe part of me doesn’t want them to know. So I’ll just keep it inside for a while longer.