Deborah,* Adoptee
*Deborah fantasized that her birth father worked with dolphins at Marineland
(Shutterstock Photo)
*Deborah is a pseudonym, per the request of the adoptee.
In the 1940s, my adoptive parents spent ten years unsuccessfully attempting pregnancy. They went through a lot—any medical procedure that was available then—so their failure was a huge disappointment to them.
They decided to adopt, starting with my older brother, then me two years later. I was adopted in 1951, and I have very little information about my birth parents. My adoptive parents never kept the fact that I was adopted from me. Their standard response when I asked about it was, “We chose you,” so I always thought I was chosen, which gave me a sense of security. I never feared that I could just as easily be unchosen.
They said, “We chose you from among many babies. We chose you because of your dark curls. We wanted you and anticipated your birth.” My reaction was always positive. I felt gratified by the news of being “chosen.”
Later, I learned that I had been in a “receiving home” for a number of months prior to coming home with my adoptive parents. I have a mental picture of me and a lot of other babies in cribs with my parents walking the aisles and stopping at my crib saying, “We’ll take that one,” as if I were a fancy French pastry.
As I got older, my mother told me it would be fine if I wanted to search for my birth mother, but there wasn’t anything like Ancestry or any DNA companies then, and no public databases. Plus, I thought it would appear disloyal for this “chosen girl” to search for someone else; I felt secure in my family, what was the need to search for someone I didn’t know? AndI thought it would hurt my parents’ feelings, would make them feel like I wasn’t happy with them.
When I was six, my mom finally got pregnant. She was overjoyed and gave birth to my younger brother. We became a family of five and everyone was happy, but during my teen years, there was turmoil with my older brother, who was rebellious and got himself in trouble a lot. I was the middle child, always trying to be the mediator and hold things together. I watched my parents struggle with my older brother, and they put a lot of pressure on me to be the opposite of him.
I also watched as my younger brother got to do things my older brother and I had been forbidden to. I thought, “Well, he’s their real child,” even though I knew we grew up equal in my parents’ eyes. Nonetheless, just for a second I felt sorry for myself. But I did have silly fantasies about my parents really not wanting me at all.
I fantasized that my birth father was a famous movie star or a scientist/dolphin trainer at Marineland, and many other things. I even told a group of girls in my second grade class that we could all go meet dolphins at Marineland because my birth father could get us in. Of course, when the day came, I had to make up an excuse about why the trip was off.
As I got older I learned some things about my birth parents from my aunt: they were both students at the L.A. Conservatory of Music. The reason she told me that was because I had some amazing musical talents: I started playing the piano at age four when I was barely tall enough to reach the keys, mimicking songs my adoptive mother and father played.
I’ve always felt isolated. I’m a natural introvert. What was most isolating was hearing stories about others’ lives and their family histories and not having one myself. When I had a project in elementary school to trace my family history and give a report on it, I had nothing. So I took on my adoptive family’s history; my mother brought out photos and articles about my adoptive parents' histories, and that became my report. I knew when I gave the report it wasn’t true, but I worked the room to own that history, figuring my classmates would be none the wiser because they didn’t know I was adopted. But I wondered, “What if they find out I’m a fraud?” Then I thought, “If I’m a fraud I must be bad, and if I’m bad, everyone will find out, so I have to keep this secret no matter what.” A cycle of self-abuse began. I struggled with lying, an eating disorder, letting people abuse me, and later in life, alcoholism. I had no coping skills. The best I could do was lie, then cover up my feelings about lying. Like so many people, the feeling of not being enough runs rampant in my psyche, even now. I work very hard to dispel those feelings, to accept who I am.
Those of us in closed adoptions in the 1940s and 50s were taught to lie about where we came from like I did in that family history report. My brother and I were encouraged not to divulge that we were adopted because it would make people curious about us, but I resent that I was supposed to lie about myself. It made me feel I wasn't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough to claim who I really was, so I had to make it up. It’s taken me a lifetime to unravel all that, and I’ve made huge strides to deal with the eating disorder, the untruths about myself and my worth, and my alcoholism. Now I’m 10 years sober. And even though the residual effects of the lies of adoption surface from time to time, I now know who I am.
As a child, I never felt my voice was heard; I felt silenced, that my opinion was unimportant. And I confused those feelings with adoption issues. I thought I wasn’t worthy because I was adopted. Being adopted doesn’t make a person special, nor does it make them less than anyone else.
The apostle Paul wrote, “I’ve learned to be content in all circumstances.” I look around at my home, the passionate artistic work I get to do everyday, my friends, my wonderful siblings and their families, and I am content.