'I tried to reconnect with my birth mum. After one phone call, I knew it was a mistake.'

This story includes descriptions of child verbal abuse.

I'm adopted. I met my birth mother when I was 18. And when I was 37, I stopped communicating with her. That was three years ago. Here's what happened…

About 41 years ago, a woman – the woman who would give birth to me – was hitchhiking around Australia. She was in her early 20s and paid her way by sleeping with truck drivers. And that's how I was conceived. Yeah – it's a grim thought. 

The day before she went into labour with me, she was beaten up on the side of the road in Perth. The police were called and found her looking for her false teeth in the dirt. They took her with them and called one of her sisters who drove from rural NSW to collect her. When she arrived, the woman who gave birth to me complained of a stomach ache. She was in labour. But nobody even knew she was pregnant – not even her. She was so emaciated from poor diet and drug use that she did not appear to be carrying a child. Her sister, a nurse, was used to her complaints. But after two days of listening to them as she drove her home to NSW, she took her to hospital. And I was born.

The woman who gave birth to me tells this story as – "I gave up smoking for you! For four bloody hours, they didn't let me smoke! It was hell!" And I believe her. It would have been hell. For her. For her family. For the doctors and nurses. Even now, 40 years on, she's feisty. So I can imagine the fight she'd have put up when they took her rollies away. 

Watch: The toxic things parents say to their children. Post continues after video.

It was 1983. When my sister had been born, only three years earlier, they had immediately taken her away. But in 1983, things were changing. They had to 'prove' that she was unfit to keep me because she wouldn't agree to give me up. But she wouldn't agree to do anything, really. No breastfeeding, no cuddles, no contact. I lay alone in a nursery for 10 days and then a miracle happened. On the tenth day, at dawn, a nurse brought me to the woman who gave birth to me. I was crying. The nurse notes record:

Asked mother: "What shall we do with her?"

She replied: "Shoot it."

And so, they had the smoking gun. Fortunately, not literally! Yes, I am laughing. You should too or the tension will be too much. She didn't have a gun – don't worry. But she did have a history with guns. She had grown up on a farm and when her brother, one day, had told her to "just go 'n shoot ya-self", she did. She shot herself in the eye socket. She did not die. This woman is invincible. But despite being raised in a loving farming family in the 60s... love wasn't enough to keep her from running away from boarding school as a teenager.

And so here we were, mother and daughter, in July 1983. Neither with a fixed home address. Both living in a hospital in Dubbo, NSW.

Fortunately, a nearby foster family took me in that very day and I stayed with them until I was adopted at five and a half months old. The woman who birthed me had given me one thing: a name. It was George – after her dad. But the hospital refused to write it like that and changed it to Georgina. Then my foster family called me Jeanie. 

Then, when I was adopted, in November 1983, my parents changed my name again.

My (adopted) mum, now, reflects that they would never have changed an adopted dog's name. And yet, they changed mine. At the time, though, it was standard practice and although my mum was a trailblazer for many things – she raised me to know I was adopted (for starters!) – the Department of Community Services encouraged her to change it. It was expected. So, she did.

When I met my birth mum again, I was 18. Despite the stern words offered by the Department of Community Services, and the kind counselling given by nurses at the psychiatric ward in which she lived... I was still not prepared for who I would meet that day. I had only ever seen a psychiatric ward in movies. Truly, the depictions weren't far off. She was the patient who talked but didn't make eye contact. Was loud and demanding. Cold and childlike. I had gone to meet a mother figure, but I left with what felt like a foster child I was obliged to care for, forever more. 

For years, I called her every few months, sent the occasional letter or gift and visited once every few years. She returned this with harsh comments and criticisms. She would often laugh and tell me that – of my two half-biological sisters and myself – I was the ugly one. The dumb one. The annoying one. But then she would laugh again at how funny it was that I was the one who was trying the most. It wasn't abuse, though that may be how it sounds. It was just the words of a child who never got to grow up. She would tell me she hated me but then ask me to call again soon and send her cigarettes. Sometimes she would tell me to get a pen and paper and write down what she needed me to post to her. I felt so sorry for her but her lovely sisters assured me that though she felt neglected; she was cared for and had everything she needed. And she really did – and does today.

She called my (adopted) mum's house once, looking for me, and told my mum she was "the ugly step mum and I don't want to talk to you," then demanded she get me on the phone immediately. My mum felt sorry for her. We both did. We both do.

But when my mum and I moved from Sydney to Adelaide in 2017, we didn't update my birth mum with our contact details and I haven't seen her since. I did call and send care packages during the early days of COVID-19 when the psychiatric nursing home she lived in was in lockdown and I'm still in contact with her sisters and brother. They are lovely people.

But in September 2020, that same year, I gave birth to my son. I called her when my son was one month old. I was filled with love and emotion and wanted to thank her for giving birth to me. My son was crying intermittently in the background as I tried to say this to her. She told me to shoot the baby so it would shut up. It was at that moment that I realised my birth story had come full circle and decided it was time to let her go. 

I will tell my son everything about his biological grandmother. It will never be a secret. None of it. And if she soldiers on until he is older, and he wants to meet her – I will drive him there myself. But until then, the trauma stops with him.  

If you or someone you know is at risk of violence, contact: 1800 RESPECT.

You may also contact Bravehearts, an organisation dedicated to the prevention and treatment of child sexual abuse, on 1800 272 831.

Feature image: Supplied.