You probably didn't know I'm adopted.  It doesn't generally occur to me that people don't know things like this; I have a horrible tendency to assume that if something is obvious to me then it must be obvious to everyone else.  When I casually say something about the difficulty of finding vegetarian options in a certain venue, it surprises me that people pause and perhaps give me a look and say 'wow, I didn't know you were a vegetarian'.  When I receive an e-mail with a search form attached from the adoption records program, I forget that I have to say 'oh, right, I forgot to tell you I'm adopted', because otherwise saying 'oh my goodness, the form arrived' has no meaning.

Oh my goodness.  The form arrived.

I saw it in the junkmail.  I hadn't wanted to give her, Lisa, the woman whose name I was given when I tried the wrong agency first, my phone number.  I wouldn't know how to do this over the telephone.  

I've been chipping away at graduate studies, and the stress of huge projects coming due and being unprepared for the deadlines is surprisingly similar to the feeling of seeing that familiar name in the junkmail, and an attachment, and it’s time to take the next step.  The letter only went out on Thursday.  Who knew the post office was so efficient?

I've been trying to write the letter that I’m trying to send for at least three years.  It's so much harder than you think it will be to describe such a basic thing.  Hey mom, it's me.  Dad too possibly, though the only mom I've ever known said not to assume you're still together.  The divorce rate being what it is, the stress of unplanned pregnancy, unplanned wedding, unplanned adoption taken into account, I might be carnage in the train wreck you’ve trained yourself not to look at anymore.

You can't write that, of course.  Nor can you write how reality will blot out all the ridiculous daydreams.  I could have been related to Al Pacino.  That guy who told me I look like Joan Baez, maybe he was on to something.  I could be anyone.  There's no knowing, and everything is possible—everything except an afternoon fancy of perhaps being Joni Mitchell's long-lost daughter since she's clearly 1) blond and more importantly 2) Canadian, and anyway they've already been reunited.

You can't write that you might not want to be reunited.  You’re afraid of them wanting you with a loud, unbridled enthusiasm.  You’re afraid of them not wanting you at all.  You just want to mail the letter, now that you've finally figured out just how much of yourself to give in that first scrap of contact, and you hadn’t anticipated needing to prepare a preliminary statement describing your intentions while the Department of Health and Family Services looks on.

This is, of course, terribly melodramatic of me.  Perhaps I should be calm and sensible.  I called, and I wrote, and I wanted this, and this step should not be a surprise.  This should not be a surprise, nonetheless I am crying a little, and afraid a little, and hopeful and afraid to hope a little.

You might not know that I often try to find solace in carefully crafted description.  Pain is less painful if the perfect adjective is applied.  Fear and shame are not as personal, not as terrible, if they are closed behind doors of language.  I have an eight-page form on my desk, awaiting notarization and a check.  I have a secret past, with a secret family that I might secretly resemble.  I do so love a family resemblance.  If I can describe what this is like, this evening with this form and this crush of hope and dread, then it will be ok.  If I can cram a maelstrom into an essay, then I can fill out and send in an eight-page form, notarized, with a check, and I can wait quietly for what comes next.