Hi Danny. You sound a lot like me when I was 18. I had the same feelings. I'm wondering if you have any of your fellow adopted people to talk with. There are adoptee-only forums and Facebook groups out there. They are safe places for adopted people to talk. No one understands an adoptee like another adoptee. If you'd like, I can give you some names of groups.

Here's another thought.

I've been doing some research on being adopted back by my father (one would think it would be possible to simply be able to annul one's own adoption). Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find much information. Unless I can somehow represent myself (unlikely, since I've no idea what I'm doing), I'm probably looking at hiring a lawyer. The process requires a court date. My father and I live 2,000 miles apart (for now), so that's also airfare for him to fly here to my jurisdiction. Unknown what all this would total.

Yet another adoption-related expense. Why can't I just fill out a notarized form and be done with it?

Thank you for writing this. It's exactly how I feel. When I was eight I was diagnosed with a very rare genetic condition. I had nine surgeries by age 21, all of which, of course, with zero family history knowledge, such as whether anyone had ever had an adverse reaction to anaesthesia. I still remember how ashamed and infuriated I felt every time my adoptive mother would say in a hushed voice "We don't know. She's adopted" during yet another pre-surgery work-up. I'm having nine surgeries. Can I know now? Didn't seem fair I had to suffer the consequences of genetics it was otherwise illegal for me to know anything about.

"The thought had crossed my mind to sue my agency, not for the bills, but for what they missed on the home study." I've thought about this, too. I had a pretty horrific adoption; I was pretty much on my own at 17. I was adopted through the government, not an agency, and am unsure what the home study consisted of, but I can't help but feeling that surely, considering how it all turned out, someone must have noticed something amiss somewhere.

I'll concede the careless relations point. But the rest of this is way off base. I'd like to share a few things I learned in reunion.

My mother actually intended to get pregnant, in some convoluted scheme to get her parents to love her more. She and my father were together for a month; after that she left. He did suspect a pregnancy, but every effort he made to contact my mother was rebuffed by her. He even went to her home and talked with her father about his suspicion -- a gutsy move for a 17-year-old now, let alone in 1970. He was thanked for his time, and never contacted again. Even my non-identifying information says "your mother and her parents decided not to involve your father in planning for your care".

In modern-day terminology, we would call him a "thwarted father"; claims he did not follow through are unfair to him. I don't know what else he could have done. What he has done since learning about me, however, is completely stuck by my side, even when my baby rage gets misdirected at him.

*exhales* Oh, what a wonderful article. You beautifully and eloquently articulate the "head/heart dichotomy" I've been trying to explain in my own reunion with my father. In his case, he never knew about me until I was 26, so there's no "baggage" of him relinquishing me. Intellectually, I understand this. But my enraged baby, who I call Jennifer (my birth name), doesn't care. It didn't make me less given away. It didn't make me any less adopted.

My adult side tries to understand the issues. And still I can hear Jennifer rattling the bars of her crib. She's escaped twice so far, running screaming through our reunion, even as I still try to intellectually understand it all.

But every day I strengthen and reinforce the crib that contains her. I picture myself approaching it with planks, nails and a hammer in my hand. Jennifer knows why I'm there. She looks at me with hurt eyes full of betrayal. I assess the latest hole she's escaped from. I pick up a plank.

"They left us!" Jennifer cries. I pick up a nail. If I could ascribe feelings to these cold metal rods, this one might be called compassion. I begin to hammer it into the plank. "They left us and stuck us with the consequences and the broken pieces we'll be picking up for the rest of our life! How could they have done that to us?!"

And then she reaches through the crib with one chubby finger and touches my hand. Just like that the white-hot baby rage is back. I pick up another nail. This one is called forgiveness. I line it up over the plank, making sure my aim is true.

"It's not FAIR!" Jennifer screams. "I know," I whisper, swinging the hammer. "I know. I'm sorry. It's not fair. I'm sorry. I know."

One day when I go to repair her crib I hope to find that it, and Jennifer, have vanished.

"Veronica,
We
Bear
Witness."

How can four words be so incredibly powerful?

Rebecca, I'm also in a wonderful reunion with my father, who never knew about me, and I love your posts about your reunion with yours. They are beautiful and poignant.

"Transforming absence into presence." Yes. And one day Veronica and Dusten will do the same.

I'm Canadian, and so support not only changing the laws in the U.S., but also here in Canada.

I'm torn on my OBC. My name was completely changed, so when I saw other birth documents with my birth name, it didn't "feel" like me. I wanted my Chapter 1, but feel that what I actually have is Chapter 1 of one book and Chapter 2 to the end of a separate book. I can't seem to emotionally integrate them.

It is with my biological father that I have a very healing and truly wonderful relationship with. Sadly, he was not told of my birth, signed no consent, and didn't know about me until I was 26. It is him I want recognized, and I doubt he is listed on my OBC.

My province opened its records in 2009. I didn't apply for my OBC and still have never seen it. All it would list is my maternal family who wanted me gone. I wish I could get something about my birth listing my father's name and my name. Just . . . something to counteract the adoption contract neither of us signed.

Oh, Deanna. I am so very sorry. Holding you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. <3

This is a wonderful series. I always felt so sad and ill-at-ease on my birthday. I always felt I had to play along with the joyous celebrations my afamily had, but I really just wanted to disappear. Obviously in the 70s and 80s when I was growing up there was no Internet, and I'm really glad to now have these validating stories.

The running joke in my afamily was that apparently on my first birthday I "punched out" my cake. My baby book has pictures of my amother wiping icing off my tiny hand. I guess even then I knew what was what. Take that, birthday!

I'm also proud to consider myself one of your minions. I've been lurking around and reading your site for months, and as I said on your FB page, as a fellow adoptee, your words have been invaluable to me. Glad to hear you had a wonderful birthday. Love the nails! :)