Adoption - Personal Narrative Essay

Ever since I was a kid I would get this look. A look of judgement for something I couldn’t control. When I was one year old I was adopted by my parents, who are American citizens, and have lived in the United States ever since. Growing up, my adoption automatically peaked everyone’s interests and I became the center of everyone’s curiosity. In elementary school, kids in my class constantly would ask what it was like to be adopted, or why I was adopted. The worst and most terrifying questions someone asked me was, ‘“where are your real parents,” and “who are your real parents?”

terror. The thing was almost upon me, and I had no way to escape. Still I pushed myself up and

I don’t quite know how to explain what happened next. It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank, but I could feel—no that's not right—I could sense something different was moving toward me.

I have always been the youngest. I was the youngest of a rather large family of seven. My parents, then two girls, then three boys. Me being the last of the boys. I was five when it all began. I was living in Sheffield, England and my parents had been thinking about adoption for a little while. One day when we all met in the conservatory for devotions, Mom and Dad walked in purposefully and started devotions by saying,”Kids, we have been thinking about adding a member to our family. We want to adopt.” The room got quieter and everyone was still while Mom and Dad waited for a reaction. I had absolutely no idea what in the world that meant, but the word sounded sharp so I liked it. I quickly learned that it meant “finding a kid whose parents couldn’t take care of them, and bringing them into our family and making them our son, or daughter, brother or sister.” I liked the idea and was all for it. Mom and Dad warned us that it would not be easy to adopt. We discussed the what it would take and what it would mean for us. I’ll admit I didn’t understand most of it, but I did understand that I was getting a new sibling, and that some things would change. If I only knew how much…

I’m BACK! I was in school studying phlebotomy for the last month and a half so now I’m studying for the state test and hoping to keep up with my blog again! Sorry about that, I hope you missed me like I missed you.

The ache in my chest was building, and I felt all of the darkness inside of me build. The pressure was only intensifying and I knew that I had to do something, and quick.

I could feel it in my fingertips, the ends of my hair, and everywhere in between. It stretched inside of me like a coiling snake, ready to lash out.

Heart beating fast, breathing hard, running for my life. Was this the end? Was my life near its deadline? I was in mid thought before it had struck me.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. I just had got off the bus and I looked at my phone I saw I had 20 text and 8 missed call. I was wondering why I had so many text and calls before I could even look at them.

On Saturday evening, with his nerves strung tighter than a bow, Arthur backed his black Ford Mustang out of his parking space and drove toward George Washington Hospital. Tristan insisted he wanted to come along, promising he’d sit in the hospital lobby. While Arthur wanted to sit in the car alone and stress, he didn’t blame Tristan for wanting to tag along, because Arthur had instigated a real shit storm outside of the hospital last night and had almost been arrested.

I was falling. The seconds felt like centuries as I plummeted to my death. Silence around me, time and space seemed frozen in motion.

I was an only child for six years. I basked in the glory of my parents’ attention. One day my mother interrupted my enthralling game of Polly Pocket’s to inform me that we were going to adopt a baby. I had no idea what that meant, but boasted about it on the playground anyway. For a while after this news, our lives were pretty uneventful; a baby didn’t suddenly appear in our house, and I wasn’t a big sister. This changed suddenly, my mother received a call from an adoption agency that informed her of a soon-to-be mother who thought we were the perfect fit. My parents were elated, yet frantic; they had received the news nine days before the child’s due date and hadn’t begun the required paperwork yet. This late notice was followed by even later nights. I

Haunted by the park bench across the road from the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park where I called my parents and they told me that Mike was dead, that he had shot himself in the head with a shotgun. Whether I knew or not, whether I suspected or not, whether I had prepared myself for this eventuality after two earlier suicide attempts in his teens, no imagining could have ever prepared me for what it was like when it actually happened. The world opened up and swallowed me

I could feel the blood pounding in my chest. Blackness crept into the fringes of my vision. My voice was hoarse from screaming; I didn’t remember screaming though.

back. Guilt and hatred swept through my body and death came into my mind. I