The Little Girl in the Window

Memory 1:

4:30 and 5 seconds...
...4:30 and 10 seconds...
...4:30 and 30 seconds...
...4:31. He's not coming for me.

Tears are welling up in my eyes even as I recall this memory. Funny how for this particular memory, it was always a rainy, dreary afternoon. In reality it probably wasn't always, it's just the mood my brain puts on the sadness of that little girl, about 6 or 7, waiting, worrying, longing, and almost crying out for her dad who is 1 minute late picking her up from daycare.

The huge bay window in the living room of my daycare provider's house was my only access to the outside world that I knew on those late afternoons waiting for my dad to pick me up and take me home. I remember the bluish-gray carpeting, the monstrous blue couch with shiny floral designs imprinted all over it, and the antique-looking brown chair with a red velvety back and seat cushion which sat next to the front door. I remember Virginia, my daycare provider, gabbing away on the phone in the kitchen, tangled up in an army green phone cord. I am amused when I think of wall phones with those long cords. She'd twirl around talking about who knows what to who knows who, completely oblivious to the heart broken little girl staring desperately out the window waiting for her dad and trying so very hard with all her 6 or 7 year old might, to not let the tears fall down her face.

Memory 2:

When my sister and I were little, it was always fun to go to sleep in the "big bed" when one of our parents went to bed before the other. I remember so many nights jolting awake. I would lie there frozen under what felt like 30 pounds of blankets. I'd be sweating, yet not wanting to move, not wanting to get out from under the covers. I would strain my little ears and listen for the sounds of my mom or my dad (whoever we went to bed with) breathing. The pitch blackness of the room suffocated me. I couldnt see, I couldnt hear, I couldnt move. Sheer terror would tear through my tiny body skyrocketing my blood pressure as I was sure my heart would pound right out of my chest. I'd muster up all the energy I had and slowly roll over onto my side and gently place my hand on the back of whichever parent was sleeping next to me to make sure I could feel them breathing. Once I felt their body slightly rise and fall with each breath they took, my own body began to relax and I would fall back asleep with my hand still resting on their back.

Memory 3:

My dad wanted to take me on a 3-day camping and canoeing trip - just the two of us - down the St. Croix river. As much as I wanted to go on this adventure with him, I was scared out of my mind and convinced that something terrible would happen and he would die, leaving me stranded. Not wanting to turn him down, I begged and pleaded with him to just do an overnight trip. He agreed and we set off. My sister and mom would meet us down river the following day to pick us up.

The trip was great. We had beautiful weather and I remember the peacefulness and stillness of the water and the woods that lined the banks of the river. Most of the time, the only sound I heard was the paddle gently scooping through the water. I remember peering over the side of the canoe and observing the small whirlpools that formed as the paddle sliced through. Occasionally we would hit a sand bar and my dad would get out of the canoe and pull us over. I was fascinated that we could be paddling along and the water was so dark and so deep to all of a sudden being stuck on a sandbar in about 4 inches of water. Every now and then I would get out of the canoe too and enjoy the feel of the sand beneath my feet and the coolness of the river water as it encircled my ankles. I remember the ripples that were etched in the sand from the gentle rhythmic rolls of the current. The texture seemed captivating and inviting to touch.

We made camp at Sandy Hill Heights. The campsites were first come, first serve. We pitched the tent on top of the sandy hill (hence the name I suppose) and pulled the canoe up onto the beachy area below our site. My dad made us dinner and I played in the water trying my best to catch minnows. As dusk came, we had a fire and made s'mores and drank hot tang. That night, as we settled into the tent to sleep, I was overcome with such intense fear, I'm pretty sure I didnt fall asleep until the sun started coming up. I laid there and listened to make sure my dad kept breathing. If he would ever grow silent, I would gently nudge him and ask him if he was ok. Once his breathing resumed to audible levels, I could relax, but only slightly. I was afraid to fall asleep in case he died while I was sleeping. The next morning, I put on my game face and pretended I was well-rested for the afternoon paddle to our ending spot.

My dad never knew about that night.


Why do I write about these childhood memories that are still so vivid to me it's like they happened 10 minutes ago? I wonder how much my experiences involving intense fears and anxiety over being forgotten, abandoned, separated, or left by my parents in that they died, have been influenced by my being adopted. I know I was only an infant and have no verbal or mental memories of my experiences, but lately I have been curious as to what sorts of things I experienced and how I held that in my body even as a baby. I was given up by my birth parents. Not knowing the truth behind why I was given up, generalized messages I got about adoption was that for whatever reason, my parents couldnt care for me and/or didnt want me. I was supposed to go to another family, but when the mom found out she was pregnant, they didnt want me anymore. When I was supposed to come to my adoptive family, my arrival was delayed an additional two months. My incredible fears of my parents leaving me permanently and my preoccupation with them dying came true when I was 16 and my dad suddenly passed away. My body had to internalize some of that stuff. I feel like it all comes out in various ways now that I am an adult, especially when it comes to having close relationships with people. If I've internalized that they will permanently leave and that is painful, I build walls and shields and barriers around me so that I do not have to experience that loneliness, that heartbreak and heartache, that anxiety and fear, that worry, and most of all, those tears.

I want to go back to that little girl standing in the bay window, that little girl frozen with fear in her parent's big bed, and that little girl too terrified and worried to go to sleep on Sandy Hill Heights. I want to go back and scoop that little girl up in my arms and hold her and hug her and love her so that she will always know, throughout her life, that she will never be left, forgotten, unwanted, or unloved. In fact, I want that little girl to know how much she was loved and still is today. I want her to feel safe and secure. Mostly, I just never want to unwrap my arms from around her. My heart breaks when I think back on these memories and that painfully shy little girl who understood and analyzed more than any little kid should have to and how 4:31 wiped out a piece of her soul every time.

Maybe I'll find that little girl in Korea. Or, perhaps, maybe that little girl will find me.