At first glance, the life as an adopted child might be seen as a gift. A true survivor, the adopted child may have triumphed over abuse or even death. Through unexpected circumstance an orphaned child and childless parent are introduced, and so begins the play within which they are players.
My name is Krishna, and I am 42 years old, and at 3 weeks of age I was adopted. I’ve always known that I was adopted; as a young child, my adoptive parents incorporated my arrival to the family into bedtime stories, there was simply no time that I didn’t know.
As I got older, the details of my adoption became more elaborate such as the hospital where I was born and the reasons I was given up, but was only offered in snippets. Growing up I felt privileged and fortunate to be adopted into a healthy middle class family where I was loved, I certainly felt special. In hindsight I’m not sure that feeling special was only because that’s what you are told to feel. Up until the age of 15 I believed what I was told, that I had been birthed by a young girl at 14 at Crown Street Women’s and Children’s Hospital in Sydney. As a preteen I became obsessed with knowing who my real mother was, who I was and where I fit in with it all. I had begun to feel out of place in the world, misunderstood, and different to others; others who had ‘real’ mums and dads and brothers and sisters. My feelings ran deep, but any exploration of these feelings was met with a casual brush-off by my mum and dad who where somewhat emotionally distant. I needed to know who I was and why I was how I was. At a time when ‘fitting in’ is of such a concern to a teenager, this is further magnified when you are adopted. I often wondered why my life had to be so different to everybody else’s? At least other people had the luxury of knowing who they were.
At fifteen I discovered the real reason for years of subtle avoidance around the subject of my origins. The reason behind unspoken words and pushed down feelings. After an afternoon of sulking on the sofa with my arms folded because “I just want to know who I am”, mum disclosed the family secret, a secret that if it had been exposed earlier could have prevented years of anguish and depression as I had felt increasingly dispossessed during my early teens. The truth was so simple, in a complicated kind of way. My natural mother had given birth to me in New Zealand when she was fourteen years old and alone. Her sister, thirteen years her senior and unable to bare children, was living in Australia with her new husband. As a tiny baby, just 21 days old, I made my maiden journey across the Tasman to Australia in the arms of an air stewardess, to be met by my new parents at the airport. I was taken home, loved and provided for and subsequently my adoption was completed in the Family Court of Australia. My reaction to mum telling me the whole truth was profound relief. I gasped “that means nana is my real nana, and uncle Ray is my real uncle and aunty Irene is my real aunty; and so I went on through the list of relatives who were now my real relatives. By this stage mum was in a bit of a state, but I got up and carried on my afternoon as though nothing much had happened. I was oblivious to the turmoil I would feel in later years that the impact of a family secret such as this can have. Continue reading “Krishna’s personal Adoption Story” »
Once again it is time to say goodbye. During the past 20 years a few friends have left this life through suicide and other traumatic events. Some I may not have seen for a few years and some remained close by. Either way each time a friend is lost I feel my heart bleed a little.