Usually when I write posts about Ling, they're kind of to her as well.
This one isn't to her. In 2 days, she will be 8 years old. And I have some real, raw, feelings to share.
Thoughts and feelings that are definitely not suitable for an 8 year old.
If you want a happier post about her, go here. This is not a happy post, not by a long shot.
I hope she will read my letters one day, and understand my hurt, anger, and overwhelming depression.
I hope one day she will read them and realize she loves writing because I love writing.
Or maybe she will hate writing but she will be tall, like me – not like the mom who's raising her.
I don't want her to read this one.
It's been 8 years since she was stolen from me and it's only gotten easier by a small margin.
I can eat, I can sleep, I can function… so it's definitely improved from the few months after I gave birth to her, but I don't think I'll ever actually “heal”.
The question on my mind the most is “What does she look like?”. Does she look as Asian as she did in her baby picture? Does she still have curly hair like she did when she was 2?
I have no idea because the last photos I got were around that time. Her mom cut off all contact, even though she “promised” … oh yes, the many broken promises of open adoption.
I know she wasn't ever meant to be mine, but she was mine. Once he said he didn't want her, literally from that moment on, she was mine. In my belly, in my heart, in my soul, in every part of my body she was mine.
As soon as I realized he didn't want her, and he was serious, too! Because she was a girl? How fucked up is that?
I went into full mom mode and started preparing a nursery. We didn't have much but I was determined to make sure she had the best I could offer. I could do it. I loved her and she was mine.
I have no. fucking. idea. what my own daughter looks like. Do you know how fucked up that is?
My friend invited me to New York, well actually I've had several opportunities to go to New York. I always say no, and now they know not to ask. I can't visit New York or New Jersey, those are places where she is – or was. Who knows now, it's been six years since I've heard a thing about her.
I don't know if my own flesh and blood is dead or alive. Fucked up.
I do know that I can't visit New York because any kid that is around eight years old that even resembles what I think she would look like, I'd wonder … is it her?
I can't even pick my own child out of a crowd. Fucked up.
That pretty much says how I feel about her 8th birthday. At least tonight. Maybe I'll feel better in 2 days and I can light a candle.
Maybe I'll sing “Happy Birthday”. I'll cry. There's always a lot of tears on her birthday.
I just found some pictures that I had forgotten about, so I'll share them on her birthday rather in this ranting mess of a post.
“Fucked up” is harsh. I've never used it on my blog before, but nothing else quite sums up my feelings about the adoption, about the theft, about whateverthefuck you wanna call it.
Just plain fucked up.
If you're new, read the story about her HERE.