Occasionally I find myself saying just that. "I was adopted." Often it's in response to questions about my family history, or it comes up when I'm asked about my birth. When it's in a personal setting, the follow-up is always the same: "Have you thought about finding your mom?" (Interestingly, no one ever asks if I want to find my dad.)"Yes, I've thought about it," I say, "and no, I don't want to."
My biological mother was 17 years old when I was born. She was one quarter Cherokee, and lived in Oklahoma. The adoption was arranged before my birth. That's all I know.
There have been times when I've wanted to find her -- dark times in my life, times when I wanted something different, some form of help. I imagine we all go through times when the aid of some mystical creature would be welcomed.
But as I grew older, I realized she isn't what I've imagined. She's just a person, in her late sixties if she's still alive, who probably doesn't want to start a relationship with a stranger. The one thing that gives me pause is that I could be wrong about that. Perhaps she's been hoping to find me all these years. But I hope not. I hope she's happy, with lots of wonderful relationships in her life.
I'm happy, and I have wonderful relationships, including a great mom and dad. Mom and dad are the ones who changed my poopy diapers, stood by me during tough times, raised me to be who I am. And I don't have to find them. They get mad when I go too long without calling.