To My Mother—of Whom, I Never Knew

I saved this Post Secret card that I found over six years ago in
hopes that one day I'd get to meet my biological mother.

Hello all.

I have returned to report some somber news.

As some of you know, I am adopted—I was born to very young parents and was almost immediately placed up for adoption. For those closer to me, you all know this is a much more complicated story.

Today I learned that my biological mother died last month at the age of 43. She apparently struggled for years with a combination of cancer, incarceration, and drugs. Not in that order, I assume.

I am just beginning to process how this feels seeing as I have no memories of her as my mother, nor do I have really any connection to her other than the fact that she gave birth to me. Never having a relationship with her is one thing, realizing I never will is another thing.

The only true emotion I have right now is a lack.

Knowing the woman who created me is no longer on earth—regardless of whether I knew her or not—is terrifying. I've watched my adoptive parents (of whom I obviously refer to as "mother" and "father") struggle with illness and aging and have survived. And yet, this woman is no longer.

I do not know her struggle. I do not know the pain she felt before she died.
All I know is she gave me life. All I know is she is the reason I live today.

This is why right now all I feel is a lack.

I thought I would have a chance to meet her one day.
I thought I would bury my pride and resentment of her abandonment so that I would have a chance to meet her one day.

But I was wrong.

She actually reached out to me on Facebook a year ago, to which I did not respond.
I actually wrote about this incident last fall during my first semester of graduate school.

I just revisited what I wrote in October and broke down in tears because I thought I would have more time to possibly one day reconnect with her.

I was wrong.

* * *

Off My Chest

My predisposition to failure began at birth. I was born to a woman who dropped out of high school during her junior year and never returned. Instead, she began a life devoted to drugs and alcohol. I would later learn she went sober when she reluctantly became pregnant with me. After my adoption, I did not hear from her until very recently—September 2013—when she sent me a poorly worded Facebook message apologizing for abandoning me.

Apparently she struggled with whether she should send the message to me for over three years.

I have yet to reply. I have no idea what I should say.
Maybe I will write to her someday. For now, I leave the message blank.

Perhaps by the end of graduate school I will reply to my biological mother’s Facebook message. I will tell her she lost out on having a son of whom she could be proud. I will tell her of my accomplishments. I will tell her of my struggles. I will tell her the reason I choose to not drink or do drugs is because she abused those substances for so many years.

I will tell her how difficult it has been to watch my father slowly die before my eyes.

I will tell her I am not alone.

I will tell her I am a motivated man willing to create change in this world.

I often wonder whether I am anything like my biological mother.

I often wonder where I inherited my optimism and my determination.

My smile and my laugh. My eyes and my horrid teeth.

Maybe I will find out in two years.

For now, the message remains blank.

* * *

That was what I wrote.

And now I will never have the opportunity to write the message to her.

I thought I'd have two years.

I was wrong.

I didn't even get one.

At least I can be thankful she gave me the chance to have a normal life.

Goodnight.

-Craig.