Adoption Series: Lonely

Lonely and unable to ask why.

            A hollow ache filled my chest, an emptiness where belonging should have been.

Across the way from where I was boarded, I could see my house –– a constant reminder of my loss. I yearned to be there. I ached for my room, my electric train, the yard with its fishpond, and the river stone rockery that had been my stage for tales of brave heroes and daring rescues. It wasn’t Mom or Dad I yearned for — I just wanted to be in my own place. A place where I felt I belonged.

I was in the third grade, my second year staying with Mimi, and my fourth year being boarded out during the school year. I knew what loneliness was. The ache in my chest had become a constant, as familiar as breathing. Sometimes, the emptiness was so deep that it felt as if my heart might simply stop — too sad to go on beating. Isolated, empty, and adrift, there was no release from it.

I now know –– I mean now, as an adult looking back –– I was yearning for social connection. Someone to talk to. Anyone to talk to. Mimi barely spoke other than giving instructions, correcting, or announcing that dinner was ready. And when I ate, I ate alone in the kitchen nook with its built-in table and benches. A table I studied closely as I ate my toasted cheese sandwich and Cambell’s cream of mushroom soup. The table was covered with a heavy coat of green paint, filling the cracks between the boards that made up the surface.

Mimi’s house was dark and cold. I never understood why I was only allowed to be in the kitchen, the bathroom, and my upstairs bedroom, never the living room, where big west-facing windows warmed the room. I wasn’t allowed to use the bathroom during the night. Mimi gave me a bucket in case I needed to pee. Once, I pooped in the bucket, not in defiance but cause I had to, and Mimi got mad and scolded me. Strange, confusing rules.

A boy named Kenny boarded with Mimi for a short period. He was a year or so younger, but that didn’t matter –– I just loved him being there. Finally, some company, even though he was more distressed than I was. He cried a lot. So, I made up stories, hoping to make him feel better. It seemed to work, and I loved making up the stories.

When we were both in bed for the night, Kenny would occasionally ask me questions as I was about to drift off to sleep. Once pulled awake by his voice and my need to be connected, I asked, “What?” having missed his question.

Kenny asked again, “Teddy, how is paint made?” Delighted to be asked, I made up an answer.

I enjoyedably spun my tale, and soon, Kenny drifted off to sleep. I still remember the warm closeness that telling Kenny a story gave me.

I knew it wouldn’t last. Sure enough, Kenny left with his dad one day and never returned, but the pain that went with being lonely did. The hollow ache returned as if part of me had been carved away.

Living with Mimi, I was genuinely disconnected from anything familiar or comforting. Sometimes, I heard a humming sound I knew no one else could hear. It was only in my head.

Friends were not allowed to visit, although I don’t remember having any friends then. I must have had school friends. Maybe they didn’t make an impression. Anyway, with no one to be close to, I was lost.

I knew that I was adopted. I’d known for as long as I could remember. I think I somehow absorbed the assumption that part of being adopted and “special,” as Mom liked to say, meant I wasn’t to question things like being boarded with strangers. Mom did say we mustn’t upset Dad. Not upsetting Dad was a mission or a mantra — something we were always guarding against. Questions about our family were on the list of things that upset Dad.

So, I didn’t ask. It was only as I wrote this that I realized what the most obvious question was. Six decades after being boarded out, I now know what I could have asked.

“Mom, why can’t I go with you? Couldn’t I attend the school where you teach and live with you?”

Mom had taken a job teaching fourth grade in Olympia, not too far from Seattle but far enough that she needed to stay there during the week.

She’d gone back to work to cover our living expenses. Dad had suffered a mental breakdown and was still recovering while I was boarded with Mimi. That much, I’d been told.

Ironically, all my adult life, I’ve asked lots of questions. I’ve used questioning to negotiate deals and develop professional relationships. I question friends and family as part of my everyday conversational style. But as I examine my questioning a bit further, it comes to me that only recently have I become more comfortable asking deeply personal questions, especially of those closest to me.

I now think my hesitation –– my internalized restriction goes back to those days when I was afraid to ask why I was left behind.

Mom and Dad are long gone. I never asked. But I know the answer now.

I was adopted. I was taken care of as required by the obligation that the Leonhardt’s had taken on. They had signed a contract and did “the best we could” to fulfill the requirements of that commitment. When I did act out and pushed the edges, Dad often reminded me that there were places where they put bad boys. I knew he meant prison. So, it was clear to me even then that being with mom and dad was conditional. And I learned that safety resides in “not rocking the boat,” as Mom would say, and staying on the surface of things. Even though I knew something was wrong, not asking questions was ingrained in me. I could have been completely abandoned at any time. That was the risk.

I was afraid that if I asked, I’d never be allowed back to a place where I felt safe. And I did feel safe in the Seattle house I considered my home.

Now, I know that closeness with others requires us to be self-revealing, comfortable asking emotionally demanding questions, and honest about what is really going on so we can understand each other.

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