02 - My Real Parents
Mar. 25th, 2025 04:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jakebeMy parents, my sister and I were watching an old black-and-white melodrama one weekend afternoon. One of the characters, a blond teenager, discovers she's adopted and runs out of the room crying. The reaction kind of puzzled me -- isn't it good that someone adopted you? Being an orphan would be a lot worse.
I'm really not sure why I asked, but I turned to my mom and said "Am I adopted?" I felt this bolt of tension pass between my mom and dad. She turned the TV off, lead me into another room, and said "Yes, but it doesn't mean we love you any less." And that's how I found out.
That summer I was introduced to my older brothers and older sister, my maternal grandmother, and a new cousin or two. I learned that my real mom was named Pam and she had been institutionalized for paranoid schizophrenia when I was very young. My younger sister and I were found "in squalor" and taken by Child Protective Services. We were adopted by my grandmother's cousin, as it turns out.
I've only spoken with my birth mom one time, on the phone. It was an intense experience. It was...almost thirty years ago now, which is insane to think about. But that one phone call put a lifelong fear of mental illness in me, and instilled a healthy distrust of my own brain.
When I talked to her, she sounded so happy at first. Weeping, she told me she missed me and loved me. And she asked me when I was going to come and see her. I told her I didn't know. And she...turned.
"Oh, are you too good to see your mother now? Huh? They keeping you from me too? Why won't you come here and see me?" I think my grandmother heard her raising her voice over the phone because she took it back from me then.
The switch flipping from this deep love to...desperation, anger, bewilderment, disgust...it was bewildering to me. I didn't understand what was happening; back then, I still thought schizophrenia was basically multiple-personality disorder or something. Was some different personality jumping to control her?
I know a lot better now. Schizophrenia is such a hard mental disorder to treat, not only because it's so poorly understood but (mainly) because the people who suffer from it aren't consistent with their treatment. When it "flares", your whole sense of reality is skewed and there's a break between your interior world and the real one. Your brain tell you that you don't need the drugs, or that the drugs are actually a hindrance. From everything I've heard, to live with schizophrenia you have to be very aware of your personal warning signs AND have a support network that can help you manage an event when it happens. It's hard and requires constant work even in the best circumstances.
For a poor black woman in Baltimore City, it must have been impossible.
I feel like my mother had very strong genes. I knew my siblings as soon as I saw them because we all look so similar. And we all share a certain level of neurodivergence from her.
Schizophrenia is one of those conditions with a strong genetic correlation, but it's less likely for children to develop it than it is for grandchildren to get it. I'm not sure why. What children of schizophrenics get, besides growing up in an unstable home, is a predisposition to chronic depression (check) or other mental illness. That holds true: I have depression, anxiety, and ADHD; my younger sister was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder; one of my older brothers has schizophrenia; another older brother has dyslexia and ADHD. My nephew, the oldest son of my youngest sister, is also schizophrenic -- but he's in the wind and I have no idea if he's being treated.
My birth father is still a mystery to me. No one in my family really knew who he was, but I think he's local at least. My mom doesn't have much in the way of official paperwork, and the one record that should have it -- my birth certificate -- was changed by my adopted parents so I guess I'll never know.
I've been secretly a bastard this whole time!
So...those are my parents. A shell-shocked, alcoholic WWII vet for a dad; an abusive, unhappy, fiercely-independent woman for a mom; a paranoid schizophrenic for my birth mom; and a question mark for my birth dad.
I'm really not sure why I asked, but I turned to my mom and said "Am I adopted?" I felt this bolt of tension pass between my mom and dad. She turned the TV off, lead me into another room, and said "Yes, but it doesn't mean we love you any less." And that's how I found out.
That summer I was introduced to my older brothers and older sister, my maternal grandmother, and a new cousin or two. I learned that my real mom was named Pam and she had been institutionalized for paranoid schizophrenia when I was very young. My younger sister and I were found "in squalor" and taken by Child Protective Services. We were adopted by my grandmother's cousin, as it turns out.
I've only spoken with my birth mom one time, on the phone. It was an intense experience. It was...almost thirty years ago now, which is insane to think about. But that one phone call put a lifelong fear of mental illness in me, and instilled a healthy distrust of my own brain.
When I talked to her, she sounded so happy at first. Weeping, she told me she missed me and loved me. And she asked me when I was going to come and see her. I told her I didn't know. And she...turned.
"Oh, are you too good to see your mother now? Huh? They keeping you from me too? Why won't you come here and see me?" I think my grandmother heard her raising her voice over the phone because she took it back from me then.
The switch flipping from this deep love to...desperation, anger, bewilderment, disgust...it was bewildering to me. I didn't understand what was happening; back then, I still thought schizophrenia was basically multiple-personality disorder or something. Was some different personality jumping to control her?
I know a lot better now. Schizophrenia is such a hard mental disorder to treat, not only because it's so poorly understood but (mainly) because the people who suffer from it aren't consistent with their treatment. When it "flares", your whole sense of reality is skewed and there's a break between your interior world and the real one. Your brain tell you that you don't need the drugs, or that the drugs are actually a hindrance. From everything I've heard, to live with schizophrenia you have to be very aware of your personal warning signs AND have a support network that can help you manage an event when it happens. It's hard and requires constant work even in the best circumstances.
For a poor black woman in Baltimore City, it must have been impossible.
I feel like my mother had very strong genes. I knew my siblings as soon as I saw them because we all look so similar. And we all share a certain level of neurodivergence from her.
Schizophrenia is one of those conditions with a strong genetic correlation, but it's less likely for children to develop it than it is for grandchildren to get it. I'm not sure why. What children of schizophrenics get, besides growing up in an unstable home, is a predisposition to chronic depression (check) or other mental illness. That holds true: I have depression, anxiety, and ADHD; my younger sister was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder; one of my older brothers has schizophrenia; another older brother has dyslexia and ADHD. My nephew, the oldest son of my youngest sister, is also schizophrenic -- but he's in the wind and I have no idea if he's being treated.
My birth father is still a mystery to me. No one in my family really knew who he was, but I think he's local at least. My mom doesn't have much in the way of official paperwork, and the one record that should have it -- my birth certificate -- was changed by my adopted parents so I guess I'll never know.
I've been secretly a bastard this whole time!
So...those are my parents. A shell-shocked, alcoholic WWII vet for a dad; an abusive, unhappy, fiercely-independent woman for a mom; a paranoid schizophrenic for my birth mom; and a question mark for my birth dad.
