About a Girl

More creative writing by me. Written in 2003. Somewhat autobiographical.


About a Girl
by S. Bednarz, 2003

In many ways I have forgotten her. Don’t really remember what she looked like, how she dressed, if she sang, even what her voice sounded like. I suppose this is partly on purpose, partly due to age, partly due to natural progression of time and how it affects your memory. I am not really certain. I do know there are times when she is right here with me. Clear as day. Almost as if I could smell her. Sometimes she is happy. Other times not. Sometimes she scares me. Other times I am proud of her. And still other times she amuses me.

Funny how that is. Some people remember their past and they remember themselves as part of the big picture. They remember other people. Other places. Places they went and saw. Things they touched. Not me. Not her. We just remember us. No one around us. No one playing with us. No one loving us. Isn’t that odd? Perhaps it speaks more to her self esteem and psyche than it does the memory.

I can see her even now standing in the school yard of her elementary school. Observing. There is a large group of children huddled in a circle. I think they are decided on playing dodge ball. Its a grey day. Feels as though it will start raining any minute. She is cold. Her clothes, though clean, are slightly mismatched and don’t fit well. She wants to hide. Unlike the rest of the children she is not part of the group, not in the circle. She is not exactly outside the circle but it is obvious she is not part of it. It is not clear if this is her doing or that of her peers. She appears suspicious, worried, waiting for something ominous.

I can feel her now. I can almost taste that feeling of fear. Of expecting to be forgotten from the game. To be left out. To be either too fat, or too slow, or too afraid or too quiet to play. She still feels like that today. The games she plays have changed but the feelings have not.

I remember a doctor once told her that he worried she might have a split personality. That there might be two personalities (or more!) inside her. She laughed. Loud. What an idiot he was. Where did he get his medical degree? If he only knew.

Sure there were two personalities. More in fact. Had to be. How else could she survive? Be happy when Dad is home. He likes people smiling. Show your true feelings when you are alone. No one wants to see or hear them. Be smart when the teachers are around. They are proud of you. Be fat and ugly and fade to the background when your sister is around. She is the one who is to shine the brightest. Be strong and confident when you are surrounded by those weaker or needier. You are their protector. Yes, there are lots of personalities. Pick the mood, time and place. We can show you. Imagine a man selling popcorn in a baseball stadium. Only instead of yelling "POPCORN! Get your popcorn here!", he is screaming "PERSONALITIES! Pick your personality here.!"

Some would think this a mental defect. Something to be worried about. Something that needed treatment. Others would realize it was a natural adaptation to the surroundings she grew up in. A marvel of her mind. A miracle. Survival of the fittest. Charles Darwin would be proud.

Maybe she should have been an actor. Her creative background. Her writing style. Her passion and fire. Could have been an actor. But was too afraid. Don’t like people looking at her.

Really. There are probably only two personalities. Since she is a Gemini (the Twins) that is okay. There are supposed to be.

I wonder at what point in her life it was decided she should become an unwed mother. I wonder if as she ran around that dusty playground, or sat alone on a ledge, a greater force plotted the rest of her life. I wonder if that power decided that to survive the playground she needed to endure the worst pain of her life by giving birth at the age of eighteen and then placing her child for adoption.

More importantly, I wonder if there are other girls like her right now. Standing alone, outside the group, in a school yard. Waiting. Waiting to end up pregnant and alone.

I wonder.

Copyright 2003

Fictitious Account

Read lots of posts lately on blogs about expectations and fantasies, before and after reunion. I will post separately on my own experiences but the topic reminded me of this story I once wrote.

I wrote this nearly 3 years ago. I was pondering one day, deeply, what it would be like to be reunited with my daughter. I also stressed alot during those days about how, when, what to tell my other children about her (they are 12 and 17 years younger than my daughter).  Funny how things turned out. Nothing like this, of course. Yes, she found me, and then I found her and we made contact. But more on that in another post.

Again, this is totally made up.


A Reunion Imagined
by S. bednarz, 2003

The silly doorbell my husband bought is ringing. I don’t understand why he could not buy a standard bell.

I yell for one of my sons to answer the door. A few minutes later my oldest son comes into the room.

"Mom, there is a girl here to see you." he says.

"Who?" I ask. "What girl?"

"I don’t know. SOME girl!" states my irritated teenage son as he turns his back to me and walks away.

I drop the paintbrush that is in my hand (I was getting tired of painting the spare bedroom anyway) and I make my way to our front foyer.

Pacing the foyer, glancing around my home is a medium height dark haired girl. I have never seen this girl in my life. Annoyed that my son let a stranger into our home, I approach her with caution.

"Can I help you?" I say.

She turns quickly. She is white as a sheet. She looks as though she is about to vomit. I approach with even more caution.

"Uh, yeah, hi…I…" she stutters.

I stare at her. Suddenly something about her seems familiar. Something about her green eyes, her dark hair.

"Yes?" I say.

"Well, my name is …." I hear her say.

Suddenly I cannot breathe. I felt dizzy. Oh dear God. It cannot be. Why didn’t I take my anti-anxiety meds today? Greg? Where is my husband? I need to sit down.

She continues to talk. I realize she is talking but I cannot hear her. I start to cry.

My husband appears in the hallway with my youngest son. He sees me crying. He looks at the strange girl. Just as he is about to mouth the words "Who are you?" to her, I see a look of understanding on his face. He realizes who she is. He realizes the day I have waited for most of my life is here.

I feel his hand on my arm. I feel him guiding me towards the living room. He invites her to follow. I feel as if I am having an out of body experience.

My youngest son begins to ask the girl who she is, he asks me what is wrong with me, he asks if he can have a Popsicle.

My husband tells him to go get a popsicle and go outside to ride his bike.

I am in emotional overload. Anxiety attack hell. Too many emotions to speak clearly.

We begin to talk. Hours pass. She says she has to go. I don’t want to let her go. Not again. Can’t she stay? She says she will be back. She tells me she will call. She needs time to think and digest the day’s events. She imagines I need time too.

NO! I don’t need time. I have had too much time. I am fine. Please stay.

She hugs me. Promises to call and she leaves.

She is gone again.

My eyes hurt from crying. I am still having a hard time breathing but I feel good. A scab has formed on a part of my heart that has been bleeding for years.

POEM: My Sisters Eyes

My younger sister was very instrumental in me finding my daughter. Someday I will post the condensed version and the role she played. I cannot thank her enough.

In the months following my reunion with my daughter, my sister wrote this poem. I was always the writer in the family. Truth be told, she aint so bad herself.

My Sister’s Eyes

So many years ago, I heard the cries
I saw the tears in my sisters eyes.

Only 13 I hadn’t a clue
She cried every night, what could I do?

It came one day, she confided in me
At 17, she was a mother to be.

She’d be leaving soon, going so far away
My big sister, how I wished she could stay.

We gave big hugs, said our goodbyes
I saw the tears in my sister’s eyes.

She’d had a girl, mom told me in May
Mom would go see her, for a quick stay.

I had no idea, the anguish gone through
Not pain of birth, but her heart ripped in two

Half went to baby, half with her stayed
Hoping together, they would be one day.

I went to visit, had some good times.
But I could still see the tears in her eyes.

Move forward some years, now with husband and son
A new chapter in life, for sure has begun

And then it had happened, on June 28
Her picture on-line, we did locate.

There was no mistake, yet could it be?
She looked so much like her amazingly

She has my sisters eyes.

I cannot imagine the anguish she feels.
The primal desire, but unable, surreal.

The hunger for daughter, yet to satiate
How many more years must she wait?

It’s awful to see, to witness her pain
Nothing can I do, no comfort obtain.

Until it should come, a blessed of days,
She will be met with her own gaze.

She will see her eyes

My sisters eyes.