Talking and Not Talking About Adoption

Context: I was born in 1960 during the Closed Era of Adoption, which many social scientists have referred to as "a failed social experiment." While my parents did tell me I was adopted when I was around four or five, further discussion was discouraged. Between 1970 and '73, as my curiousity about my background grew, I tentatively raised the subject again. Each time, my adoptive mother became nearly hysterical and very angry. "I'm your real mother," she would cry. "That's all you need to know. She gave you away. I'm the one who gets up with you in the middle of the night when you're sick, I'm the one who..."

But that was a long time ago.

I remember it, clearly, but could I be wrong?

Once again, I decided to revisit the subject with my father who, in the past, has confirmed my memories.

For the last two weeks, my adoptive Dad seemed worse than ever. His dementia is progressing fast. He's becoming more needy, emotional, sleepy and incoherent. And then, last night, he sounded perky and coherent and perfectly reasonable (and narcissistic, of course).

This may be the last time I can ask him a question about my adoption, I reasoned.

I took notes. Here's the conversation. For the record, we've had this conversation a decade ago before he developed dementia. It's pretty much the same except for the "bad taste in your mouth" bit...which I've always suspected.

Me: "Dad, when I was younger and I tried to ask Mom about my adoption, she acted very angry. Did she?"

Dad: "Oh yeah. You made her really mad."

Me: "Why? Why did that make her mad?"

Dad: "Because she didn't like to think of you as adopted. She thought of you as hers. She liked to pretend that you were hers. And you kept bringing it up. You know how you are, so stubborn."

Me: "But Dad, didn't she think I might be curious. Might want to know about where I came from?"

Dad: "That didn't matter to us. We thought of you as OURS. You ARE ours. You BELONG to us and that's all that counted."

Me: "I know, Dad. But, didn't you ever think I might have some questions. I mean, YOU would if YOU were adopted."

Dad: "Your mother didn't like you to talk about it. She didn't like to think of you that way."

Me: "But there's nothing wrong with being adopted, Dad. It's a fact. I AM adopted."

Dad: "If you want to go around telling people, go ahead. But we didn't do that. No way. We would just tell people you were ours."

Me: "So you thought being adopted should be kept secret?"

Dad: "That was our business and nobody elses. As soon as you tell people you're adopted, they get a bad taste in their mouth."

Me: "A bad taste in their mouth? What do you mean?"

Dad: "It's such an ugly thing. That's why your mother didn't like you to talk about it. It leaves such a bad taste in your mouth."

And, because I must like punishment, one more time...for the record:

"Dad, didn't you ever think it might be important to me to have more information about my history?"

Dad (almost puzzled at the mention of the word "me." I don't say it often, nor do I use its twin "I" because both are useless when talking to a narcissist-there is only "them"): "No. That wasn't important to us. You belonged to us and that's all there was to it."

Okay, this sort of crazy talk makes an adoptee feel like she's Alice in Denialland.

It's a wonder I didn't end up in the looney bin.

It's no wonder I am resentful toward my adoptive parents for making me live such a repressed and lonely life while under their roof.

It is no wonder I skipped town as soon as I could for college and limited contact because, being with them made me feel invisible and diminished.

There was no me. There was only their needs. It did not once occur to them that the daughter who "belonged" to them may have an inner life that needed attention.