The Breaking Point:
Is It My Fault or Yours?
If I snap – if I buckle under the weight of this relentless pressure, this unbearable ache that grows with every dismissal – will it be my fault? Or will it be yours?
The world has demanded so much from me. It has asked me to carry the silence of others, to bear the weight of their denial, their discomfort, their unwillingness to face the truth. It has required me to keep my pain neatly folded and tucked away where it will not inconvenience anyone else.
But there are limits to how much a soul can carry, limits to how long a body can endure. And if I break – if the seams come undone and the truth bursts forth in anger or sorrow or exhaustion – what then? Will you blame me for the rupture?
The Weight You Place on Me
It is not enough that I was severed from my roots, that my identity was rewritten, that my grief was silenced. No, the world demands more. It demands that I be grateful for the pain and that I present my suffering in ways that are palatable, digestible, and easy for others to ignore.
And when I fail to do so – when the weight of unmet needs and unheard cries becomes too much – society will look at me and say:
“See? You’re the problem. You couldn’t handle it.”
But how can I handle a burden that was never mine to bear? How can I endure a pain compounded by the world’s refusal to acknowledge it?
The Fault Line of Denial
If I snap, it will not be because of a personal failure. It will be the inevitable consequence of a system that has piled its weight upon me for years, that has refused to share in the labour of carrying the truth. The fault lies not in my breaking but in the pressures that caused it.
- It lies in the dismissal of my pain as bitterness.
- It lies in the platitudes that deny my reality.
- It lies in the silencing of my voice to preserve the comfort of others.
The cracks in my resolve are not born of weakness. They are born of a relentless onslaught of microaggressions, invalidations, and systemic erasures.
If I Fall Apart
And if I do fall apart, what will you do? Will you look at the pieces and finally see the weight that broke me? Or will you avert your eyes, telling yourself it was my fault, my failure, my inability to handle the cards I was dealt?
The world loves to blame the broken for their breaking. It absolves itself of responsibility, refusing to see the systems, the words, the silences that brought someone to their knees.
But let me ask you:
How much weight could *you* carry before you buckled?
A Choice to Make
This is not just my story. It is a choice the world must make. Will you continue to pile the weight of denial onto those who are already burdened? Or will you take some of the load, acknowledge the truth, and work to change the system that caused this pain?
If I snap, it will not be because of weakness. It will be because you chose not to listen, not to see, not to share the burden. The question is not whether I will break – it is whether you will act before I do.
The fault is not mine. It never was.
The Difference Between Privilege and Pain
There is a stark difference between those living in the safety of kept privilege and those who carry the scars of adoption. Privilege allows people to crumble over the smallest inconveniences, while those of us shaped by adoption bear the weight of loss, identity erasure, and systemic silencing without breaking.
Yet, it is the privileged – those untouched by the complexities of adoption – who have the audacity to attack, dismiss, and judge. You see them, these Karen-like figures, losing their minds over trivialities while we, the adoptees, endure lives fractured by forces beyond our control. And still, we are expected to be silent, to be grateful, to tolerate their ignorance.
Come Into My House and See the Truth
But let me warn you: if you come into my house to dismiss my lived experience, to reduce my pain for the sake of your comfort, you will not leave unscathed. You will be carried out – not because I need to fight, but because truth does not bend to privilege.
I will not be silenced to preserve your sanitized version of adoption. I will not tolerate your fragile outrage while my wife, who advocates for me and others like me, faces your pathetic attacks from the safety of your keyboards. You hide behind screens, throwing stones at those who dare speak truths that make you uncomfortable.
What Right Do You Have?
While my adoptive mother estranged me and manipulated my own children against me, you sit in judgment. You defend a system that perpetuates harm because it makes you feel good.
For what? Your comfort?
Your unwillingness to be offended by the truth?
You have no right. None. You do not own this pain. You do not carry its weight. You benefit from its erasure while demanding that we, the affected, remain silent.
No More
We will not bow to your privilege. We will not excuse your ignorance. If the truth offends you, then leave. But understand this: your comfort has no place in a conversation about justice, reform, and the lived experiences of adoptees and birth parents.
