Living With Ghosts

An adoptee life

This Halloween, I’ll offer a nod to a few of my ghosts, in hopes of them doling out treats instead of tricks. Plus, as my constant companions, they deserve their time on stage.

There’s the shape-shifting ghost of the person (or people) I might have been if I’d grown up with my birth family. This ghost pops up on a regular basis, in a variety of moods, places and times. I remember seeing it when I was a little girl, desperate for horseback riding lessons but instead sitting through piano lessons and wobbling my way through ballet classes. I saw it as a deeply shy teenager, curious about makeup and fashion and boys but locked in battle with a mother whose sole focus was education. I saw it as my adoptive mother lay dying, and I struggled with the role of loving daughter even as I stayed with her so she wouldn’t be alone.

I wonder if my adoptive mother lived with this ghost’s relative – the ghost of the person (or people) a daughter born to her might have been. A daughter who would have embraced “Great Expectations” at 10 instead of reading all the “Nancy Drew” books. A daughter who was comfortable in her own skin, forging her own path in the world even if it was different from everyone else’s. I don’t know if she lived with this ghost; we never talked about it. Which introduces another, less visible, ghost.

This one’s the ghost of the relationship my adoptive mother and I might have had if only we’d been able to be open with each other about my adoption. I’ve always known I was adopted but it wasn’t a topic to be discussed. She never asked me how I felt about it. And I never asked her. When I told her I’d taken a DNA test and found my bio family, she confirmed our code of silence and cut off further discussion, saying “But I like to think of you as my baby.” When there’s a gap of intimacy that wide, it’s difficult to find a bridge, much less find one that’ll hold up under the pressures of toddlerhood, teen angst, adult independence. This is a quiet little ghost, easily overlooked, but one who is heavy with regret and longing.

But when it comes to ghosts draped in longing, none come close to the biggest, most powerful ghost of all. The ghost of my biological mother. For more than 50 years, she was shrouded in mystery, a true ghost with no name, no face, no body. That home DNA test and some internet sleuthing eventually gave this ghost a name, a face. But she doesn’t want to meet in person, so there’s still no body, no hand for me to hold, or voice for me to hear. She is with me, always, but never.

There are other ghosts in my life, but these are the three I feel the most. The ones most often on my doorstep, or popping out from behind a closed door to say “Boo!” Sometimes they frighten or startle me. Sometimes, they just feel familiar and we walk together for a bit, side by side.

Happy Halloween to us all. 👻

(First published on LuciaBlackwell.com)

📖 RESOURCE: Read more about adoption and “ghost kingdoms” from Shannon Quist.