Phone Calls & Letters: An Adoptee Reunion Update

5:27 (1 hour 58 minutes)

7:37 (3 hours 9 minutes)

It makes complete sense to me why so many adoptees write memoirs. If you’re a writer with no sense of your own story, you’re practically driven to the paper in order to sort it all out. Sometimes it’s pretend, sometimes it’s filled with wandering explanations, but no matter what, it will always be filled with holes, little ones, big ones, that all say, “what if?”

The older I get, the more I become myself. That is to say, the older I get, the less I give a shit about what people think and cling to those very few who take the time to understand me and care for me. It makes writing the story easier, believe me.

All my life, I’ve had this notion that my behavior dictates my likability. The concept of conditional love is the foundation of what I’ve built many relationships on because I’ve never felt warmed by the idea that I could be loved exactly the way I am for no other reason than the fact that I exist and this is what my existence looks like. But I’ve finally thrown the idea of conditional love out with the bath water.

It’s bullshit.

My daughter loves me just the way I am and now, so does my biological aunt. Love like this blows me away. I’m not used to it.

Unconditional love is not normal. Not for me. But I’ve been drinking it up like a dehydrated cactus. (Side note: CAN a cactus actually experience dehydration? I mean, I’ve killed succulents so I’m guessing yes).

Five hour phone calls are probably one of the best things in life. Tell me everything. All of it. You talk, I’ll take notes. You ask questions, I’ll give you the stories. If you want to know me, this is how. And this time, in reunion with my Aunt Bev at long last, I’m not holding back.

“What do your parents think of the book?” She asks me.

“Oh, that’s the hot question, isn’t it? Everybody wants to know the answer to that,” I laugh.

And then I tell her about my dad’s reaction, just a few simple sentences, but recent actions louder than words. I explain my mom’s silence. My aunt can handle my truths. She’s handled them all so far.

But in the joy of feeling free enough to open this can of emotional worms, I forget to tell her that her reaction to my book is noteworthy, too! She’s a part of the story still being written, and the people closest to me will ask the same question:

“What does your aunt think about your book?”

And I also forget to ask if it’s okay that I write about our talks on my blog. I’ll text her right now.

She said yes.

And I’m glad because I’ve resolved to write down this experience as best I can. The history is happening now and it’s up to me to document it.

We also talked about my birthmother. We always do. I’ve finally just sent her a letter and my aunt has told her about me, that we’re in contact and I’d be writing a letter soon.

Letters are what my birthmother and I know. It’s no wonder I’m a writer. Memorizing someone by only their writing is like speaking through a psychic veil where you’re both just out of reach of the other, but somehow also intimately close.

So. I have resolved to document everything. Since this is the first letter I’ve ever written to her, I took a photo of it and transcribed it for my records. Unlike so many other letters to other people I’ve thoughtlessly scrawled and sent away to be forgotten forever, this history will be complete. Just this one history of our letters to each other can be a full and whole story.

But there’s no telling how my birthmother might react to the letter, especially given how she reacted to her sister’s news. She has other focuses that may be a stronger pull than connecting with me via handwritten letters.

Only time will tell.

But either way, I have my Aunt Bev, a kindred spirit, and our bi-weekly phone calls are divine.