I titled my blog “At the end of the Day”. Chances are I am not writing at the end of the day rather bright in early in the morning but I didn’t think “At the Crack of Dawn” would make a very appealing title. I am a morning person – not the bright, shiny kind that I’d like to kill but more like I’m up, I’m here, let’s work kind. After a cup of coffee, grande, I am ready to go.
I’m drinking coffee right now otherwise I wouldn’t be able to think. It’s probably an Army thing. Everyone, where I work, drinks coffee. It can be a hundred and seven degrees outside and we’d still be drinking coffee. I work for the Army. I guess I should have introduced myself even though this is a one-sided conversation.
My name is Deborah. You can call me Deb. I am 42 years old, really 35, single with two really great kids. I have worked with the government for 15 years and traveled to many different places all around the world. Before becoming a civil servant I worked with horses in Michigan; hunters and jumpers – awesome group of people! Before that I was in the Army. I served 5 years as a Military Police Officer. I was married in 2001 and divorced in 2006. I have 2 years of college and thankful everyday that I have a job. In this economy, I can’t imagine doing what I was doing 15 years ago and trying to support my family. In some areas of my life I got smart. In others, I’m still really stupid.
Like yesterday when I insulted the Oklahoma county clerk. I shouldn’t have done that. For one, it was the clerk back in 1970 that I wanted to insult not the one doing the job today. For two, I can’t burn that bridge. I might need to repetition one day. But really, why all the mistakes in my adoption case? Why did my biological mother and I have the wrong names listed on these “official documents”? Why did the social worker say my mother was Indian if she wasn’t? Why did the judge send me my mother’s name? Was it his way discreet way of helping me? He can’t open the records but he gives me a lead? Strange.
That’s how my mind works. I immediately jump to some mysterious conspiracy when the truth is probably very simple, i.e. the county clerk was intoxicated.
My parents tried to answer my questions and they tried to help me. My Mom sent me to a retreat for adopted kids when I was fourteen but again I didn’t really fit in. At the camp I heard most everyone express how they felt they were “special”, that they were handpicked by their parents. Yes, we were handpicked but only AFTER we were abandoned by our own parents. I don’t mean to make light of the situation but that’s how I felt. Did these others kids completely forget that they were rejected by their birth parents and were lucky they got picked up for adoption. I say lucky because some kids were not lucky and I’m thankful a hundred times over for being adopted and escaping foster care. Recap, I was lucky not special and still abandoned.
My parents also made phone calls and sent letters trying to find my family but we never did. I sent letters directly with the Quapaw tribe and never got a response. Talking about my wishes to find my other family seemed to hurt my adoptive parents and after a while I stopped talking about it and buried my feelings down deep. But only the dead lie and my feelings resurfaced again and again throughout my life.
What did I do with my mother’s name, you might ask? I haven’t done anything. To understand why I haven’t you’ll have to take another journey with me. Are you ready?
Couches don’t talk – let’s go.