Adoption: The Liberation

In the light of the many successful adoptions that offer loving and lasting solutions for all parties concerned, I am delighted to commend the procedure for the vast majority. There are however victims who have experienced the darker side of adoption as the epitome of confinement and for whom the lifelong consequences can never be eradicated. I am one of them. This account will illuminate the way a growing mind can sometimes be forced into an impossible compromise in its efforts to integrate and be accepted.

I'll never forget that summer afternoon in 1958 when my "mother" sat down to talk to me. This was a rarity in itself, as her dialogue with me was invariably a monologue of commands and reprimands. She told me that she and my father were not my biological parents. She said I had been adopted at birth from a young unmarried girl who had "got herself into trouble", and had not been in a position to keep me.

Did I have any questions? Immediate instincts warned me to be cautious and not give her the impression I might be disloyal to her with the sudden advent of a new mother. I was careful to word my questions in a way that would avoid antagonising her. I forced myself swiftly to conceal the inner relief I was feeling. I wanted to know who my mother was; what was her name? Where did she live? What did she look like? My surrogate mother claimed she had no idea. She cringed at my use of the words "my mother". She hastened to remind me that she was "my mother". She told me it was painful for her to hear me referring to anyone else as "my mother", and asked me to tuck away this newly acquired information in a pocket of my mind and not refer to it again. I was then twelve years of age.

I had been forbidden to answer back all my life. No shows of emotion were tolerated and unsolicited comments were regarded as insubordinate, so I returned to my room at the end of the briefing and shut the door. I could hardly control my feelings. I felt elated and liberated from an enormous burden. In a strange way I no longer felt solitary and unwanted in the world, just inconvenient at birth and unwelcome in this household.

Even at that tender age and without exposure to any psychology that could explain parental behaviour, my mother's revelation clarified so much. I had always instinctively felt like a misfit in this family, but didn't know why. I spent my youth in a daze, unable to fully focus on life itself, as the sheer exhaustion of living in this family distracted me so severely. My mother, forty years my senior, had alienated me from outside friendships and ostracised me, making me feel unloved and superfluous. She had forced me into solitude with escalating amounts of housework, which occupied my entire time out of school and which seemed to be the only feasible reason for keeping me. It was as though I lived on the outskirts of this family, allowed to peep in through the window, while rigidly constrained by its servitude. The monotonous round of daily duties, devoid of meaning or affection surely defied all the principals of adoption. Friends were not allowed to visit and I had no time or permission to visit them.

I had tried all my young life to either placate or avoid her, never really understanding what I had done wrong. I was convinced it must have been my fault since she behaved quite differently toward my brother John, who was two and a half years my senior. He had been adopted at birth and she had informed him some years beforehand. In the pecking order of our household my brother earned her highest deference, followed closely by the dog and then my uncle. My Dad came further down the scale, with my grandfather floating unpredictably somewhere below, according to her mood swings. No one need ask who was relegated to the lowest rank! A peculiarity of the hierarchy was her rationed sugar and butter system. Since these products were still on the national ration list, following World War II and were consumed by default by the highest members up the ladder, while my grandfather and I consumed unsweetened tea and margarine.

My father was a wonderful man; mild, well mannered, loyal to his marriage vows, deeply religious and due to these virtues, he was putty in her hands. My "uncle" was an older widower from the Church, who had come to live with the family rather than live alone. He was well off and spoilt my mother with lunches and presents, to curry favour and have an easy life at home. My grandfather was a little man who had been a gardener all his life. He was quiet, modest, pious and offended by his daughter's indifference towards me. He embarrassed my mother by reminding her continuously of her lowly pre-marriage background.

"Brother" John was mother's special love, with his blond hair and blue eyes and innocent guise, which belied his real nature. Even if she caught him stealing money from her purse, she rebuked herself for not divining his financial needs in advance. He had just celebrated his fifteenth birthday and as usual she had organised a grand party for him and all his classmates from his best private school in the district. The fact that he was permanently threatened with expulsion for non-attendance at school and his failure to even attain a measure of literacy seemed to increase her devotion to him. John enjoyed his sunny status and learnt to treat me with an arrogant complacency, which never diminished over the years. In contrast, I attended a free State grammar school, qualifying through an entrance exam. She seemed upset by my academic success and felt I was doing it deliberately to outshine John. I had never been given a birthday party. She said January wasn't the right time of year for a party and maintained that no one would want to come to a party of mine anyway.

The morning after my "liberation" talk, I sped to school to tell my friends my good news. I bounced into school yelling that the witch wasn't my mother after all and that I wouldn't grow up to be like her, which had been my greatest fear. The relief was immense and my friends shared my delight.

This revelation threw an entirely new aspect on my otherwise hopeless existence. What thrilled me was the fact that it opened up an avenue to finding the person who was my natural mother. Knowing nothing of the circumstances, I found myself walking through the streets, looking at all the ladies to see if I found someone who bore any resemblance to me. Thoughts of this unidentified mother obsessed me day and night from that time on. I felt comforted by the thought of someone out there who must have been thinking of me and wondering how I was doing, someone who possibly cared. She must surely be worried and curious about me and if she knew of my plight, I was certain that one day she would come and claim me. She may not have given me away entirely voluntarily and would have certainly bitterly regretted it. My speculations knew no limits. Ever-new angles on the theme flashed through my mind and continued to console me in the face of domestic aggravations.

As the fixation took a hold of me, I had already created a picture in my mind of a kind-faced lady with a fuller figure, an all-embracing family mother. One day while out shopping in the village, I saw her. The same nose, the same shaped face as me - this must be her. I started to follow her from shop to shop, listening to her voice and trying and find a way to gain access to her. I stalked her to her home and noted the address. I was in no doubt, this was my mother - I only had to approach her. I never did summon up the courage; I hadn't been raised to have much confidence in myself. My innermost gut feeling told me it couldn't be her, but it raised me from the depths of apathy for a while. This woman had unconsciously given me a concrete picture; a living role model to which I would cling for many years.

The only clue I could gather with regard to my biological mother was that she had given birth to me out of wedlock at age 17. My adoptive mother claimed that "this kind of thing runs in the blood", and regarded it as her particular responsibility to prevent a repetition of this family trait. Her austere discipline during my teens denied me anything that could hint of femininity and accentuate my gender, such as makeup, bras, tights or long hair. While I watched my girlfriends acquaint themselves with fashion and make-up I seemed to take on an ever more grotesque appearance by contrast, making me feel ashamed and genuinely inferior to everyone else.

The irony of this situation became all the more paradox as I combated the nauseous effects of daily child molesting by my "devout" grandfather as early as I can remember. These sexual overtures carried out under the cloak of love and conditions of sworn secrecy was a crass introduction to the only sources of affection available to me at that time. A child can be forgiven if before her age has reached two digits, she associates 'love' with aiming to please. While knowledge of child abuse is now widespread, one could speculate as to whether adoption eliminates a natural barrier normally at hand in a biological child of the family.

In the course of time it became apparent that my mother didn't like or accept any women, in any capacity and never had any female friends at all, presumably regarding them as potential rivals. She seldom left the house except to go to the Baptist Church on Sundays where she sanctimoniously sang hymns and joined in the prayers as a devout Christian does.

Injustices, distress and daily examples of parental incongruity increased, but I learned to grin and bear it. I was powerless to change it and I knew that at age twenty-one it would be over. Since the unveiling of my real family status, or non-status, my mother had increasingly uttered the phrase "I don't know why I bothered to adopt you". This was a query with which I was never defiant enough to openly agree. In all my formative years it never ever occurred to me that I had the option to retaliate - so great was the pressure of her repression on me. The alternatives were altogether very sparse in those days. There is no doubt in my mind that given the gross circumstances, today I would have inevitably resorted to some form of drug to dull the pain.

While undoubtedly some of the above can be attributed to the remnants of a Victorian age in post-war Britain, the criteria for adoption was sadly inefficient in sifting out unsatisfactory parental candidates. Membership of a recognised Church and proof of adequate finances are hardly indicative of suitability, as we now know. Failure to check up on the emotional and psychological state of the child and make necessary corrections, cements conditions past the point of repair. My inner pain is intense and whilst I can camouflage it with proficiency, it is an omnipresent shadow that still obscures the sun.

Most adoptions undoubtedly bear witness to a high rate of success in the system. However, in the wake of anti-abortion arguments, it has become all too simple to suggest adoption as a general alternative. Today I still bear the aching scars of the darker side of this story where abstract, incalculable damage in inescapable surroundings during the first two formative decades of life becomes irreparable. I thank God for my grown-up son who has given me the chance to give and take unconditional love, but as we know, roots don't grow upwards. I still look for the role model that will help me to identify what is meant by unconditional love, without providing services or proving my worth.

It is hard to assess the degree of maternal commitment in a prospective adoptive parent. There must be situations where people believe themselves to be blessed with the qualities required for this responsibility but in reality cannot bond with their protégé. Whatever the case or the cause may be, it is unforgivable to use power games on a defenceless, vulnerable child, who is powerless to remedy the problem on its own. The parents are a child's window on the world, and it is of paramount importance that this window is transparent, clean and protective and gives a healthy access to that world, while maintaining the warmth within.

I remember calling for help, but the silence of inactivity was deafening.