MY STORY: AN OPEN LETTER TO MY BIOLOGICAL MOTHER

Samantha Dix-Hill was given up for adoption 52 years ago…

Dear Mother,

Every year, for as long as I could remember, my birthdays were spent thinking of you. Wondering why you had to give me up. Who were you? Were you famous? Rich? Happy? Did you secretly watch me from afar, proud of my achievements, content that you had done the right thing by giving me up for adoption?

How different the reality is. When I finally did find you, I realised that you knew nothing about my life. So these are the parts you missed...

Growing up as an adopted child was not easy. This had little to do with my parents and everything to do with society at the time. As you well know, adoption was not as accepted then as it is now. In the early ’70s and ’80s, this was not a common topic of discussion, and certainly not something I was allowed to talk openly about. I was never encouraged to ask questions about you or my biological father. Broaching the subject would upset my adoptive mother to the point where she became quite annoyed with me. I hated hurting her, but in my heart I was learning that being adopted carried an element of shame and secrecy.

During my school years I was a successful swimmer and competed at national level. I was taller and bigger than my contemporaries, and this led some envious parents to speculate that I was older than I was, even accusing my parents of lying on my birth certificate. More shame.

This was my childhood, trying so hard every day to prove that I was worthy of being part of a family and worthy of being

loved. I lived to please others, often to my detriment. I welcomed sexual advances as a sign of love, always to my detriment.

For a large part of my early years and all my high school years I spent my days swimming – hours and hours on end, doing a sport that I loathed, just because I had a talent for it. I tried everything possible to get out of those sessions, even slitting my wrist one afternoon in a frenzy of desperation. I was 12 years old. It was a superficial cut and a desperate cry for help. It went unheard. Back into the water I went, my dreams of being a ballerina and horse rider submerged, along with my body, under the cold smell of chemicals.

My unhappiness led me to seek solace in food. I gained weight and struggled to keep up at swimming. My adoptive mother put me on one crazy diet after another. One month I was eating nothing but lettuce leaves and yoghurt, the next only fruit. By the time she passed away

I had no idea how to control my own urges as she had controlled what I’d eaten for so long. Imagine my delight when I found the perfect way to control my weight: bulimia was my best friend and greatest enemy until I was in my forties.

What else did you miss and yet never ask me about, even when you had the opportunity so many years later?

I was deputy head girl of my school.

I was proud of that. I earned my Springbok colours at 16. I was proud of that too. I don’t think I ever told you. You never asked.

My adoptive mother passed away unexpectedly and far too early when I was

You had lived up to my fantasy of you. You were a journalist and I loved writing. You were wonderfully tall (like I am) and beautifully thin (like should have benn). You were also incredibly selfish.

20. I found you a year later. You were living close by and I remember feeling relief that you were a beautiful, educated woman. You had lived up to my fantasy of you. You were a journalist and I loved writing. You were wonderfully tall (like I am) and beautifully thin (like I should have been). You were also incredibly selfish. You had so much to tell me about your life and so little to ask me about mine. I was too young then to realise that you were a narcissist.

I fell pregnant just after I met you. I was not married, and he was an addict, prone to violence. I blamed myself, and in some deep, dark part of my soul, I felt I was living up to expectations; I was getting what I deserved. I reached a point where I was alone and overwhelmed, and I wanted it all to end. In yet another desperate cry for help, I overdosed – and again it went unheard. What people are loath to admit is the fear of what you inherit when you adopt a child. It’s the age-old nature versus nurture debate. I felt silently observed by those closest to me as they tried to figure out which sinister part of my biological past I was carrying around, like a sack of writhing snakes.

You and I kept contact on and off over the years. I educated myself, obtaining two degrees. I lived in six different countries, on four different continents. I spent my youth trying to get my adoptive family to love me and now I was spending my adulthood trying to get you to at least acknowledge me. As I grew older and wiser, I realised my life was of very little interest to you.

Then came the moment that I knew

I had to let it all go. I had asked you for details about my biological father. I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him, but I needed medical details as my eldest son was suffering from a condition that he may have inherited. I asked many times and never received a satisfactory reply. I guess I asked one time too many because that’s when you sent me that scathing text, informing me that the events that led to my adoption were a source of great embarrassment for you. You took my breath away. A source of embarrassment?

I am an interesting woman. A woman with a dark and troubled past, but despite all of that I am smart, funny, intelligent and happy. I have two wonderful sons (whom you never ask about) and am married to a good man. I love my adoptive parents. They are my parents. My mother was overambitious and far too controlling, but her intentions were good and I will always be grateful to her. I will always love her. My dad? He is the most precious human being I know. I am nobody’s source of embarrassment.

And that final, mean text message is what led me to this decision. In 1967 you decided to let me go. Fifty-two years later, I’m finally deciding to let you go. You are not my mother and never were. You do not deserve to be called ‘Mom’; you haven’t earned the title. You don’t know me at all, but

I know you.

What you think is an embarrassment is ironically the one thing in your life that you should be really proud of. I will no longer feel shame because of my past. My head is held high, my shoulders are back, and I will keep looking forward.

Embarrassment? I think not.