As a child writing my first story, I always dreamed that one day I would be a writer. I imagined myself the author of dozens of stories and books, each with characters and plots more complex and intriguing than the one before. People would wait impatiently and then rush out to buy my newest masterpiece, and I would smile when my name topped the New York Times Bestseller List.

Yet, not once during all those years of dreaming did I ever imagine that I would be the central character, or that my mundane life would be the inspiration for the plot. Not once did I think that the story I would one day be so passionate about writing would be my own, but when I reunited with my birthfamily in the fall of 2002, I knew that I finally had the story of stories to tell.

I must admit I was almost scared to try and write it. I’ve been starting and stopping this project for the past three years, unable to get myself motivated enough to really let go and dive in. Don’t get me wrong, I think it is a great story, one that certainly deserves to be told, but I sometimes wonder if I have the words to tell it. There is a division between words and emotions, a chasm that is sometimes impossible to overcome. The human soul is so complex, the human heart so intricate that I believe there are some emotions that are truly too complicated to be accurately explained. And mine is a story full of emotions.

A lot of time has passed since I first learned I was adopted at the age of 12 and then reunited with my birthfamily 10 years later, and I am sometimes still taken aback at how utterly unbelievable it all is. These days, I am no longer pinching myself and thinking that I will wake up and discover that it has all been just a crazy dream. I guess I have finally learned to accept it as reality. After all this time, I am no longer searching, and that has taken some getting used to. After so many years of vigilance, so many years spent with eyes wide open, searching for something familiar in the sea of strangers around me, I have had to learn how to sit back and relax and accept the fact that everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of and prayed for, is right here in my hands. It nearly drove me crazy at first, learning to unwind.

I have spent the past eight years watching with dumbstruck fascination as my adopted and biological families blended seamlessly into one. But that is only half of the story. The other half is a story of a girl conflicted, struggling to piece together her broken identity and overcome a pattern of unhealthy relationships, eating disorders, substance abuse, suicide attempts and self-loathing. My story is a story of rock bottom and second chances, of chance encounters and extraordinary odds. And, above all, it is a story of hope.

Over 60% of Americans have had a personal experience with adoption, and that number is growing. As adoption continues to break free from its bonds of secrecy and become a much more mainstream issue, books and memoirs about foster care and adoption should finally gain some much-needed notariety. Like me, many adoptees struggle with emotional and identity issues during their adolescence and young adulthood, faced with the daunting challenge of trying to establish their identities, without truly understanding who they are or where they came from. More than anything, I hope that my memoir, In a Sea of Strangers, can provide an honest and introspective account of my own adoption as a 2-day-old infant and the long, hard road to the reunion with my birthfamily 22 years later and maybe, just maybe, help someone else navigate the journey.

I’ve been trying to get myself motivated to get the old manuscript, dust it off, and get started working on it again, so I figured maybe my blog was just the place to give myself a jumpstart. For tonight’s 365 Project entry, I’d like to share what I currently see as the Prologue to the story. Crazy as it may sound, it all started with a dream…

 

PROLOGUE

“It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the
submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.”
– Virginia Woolf

 “A dream is an answer to a question we haven’t yet
learned how to ask.” –
Fox Mulder, X-Files

I stood at the back door gazing into the darkness. A million blades of dewy grass sparkled silver, like a blanket made of stars. The full moon had begun its descent in the early morning hour, but still gave off so much light that I could see almost as well as if it had been daytime. Inside, the house was cool and silent.

I stood at the back door, my nightgown (one of my dad’s old t-shirts) hanging
down to my ankles. My bare feet sunk into the knotted cotton rug just inside
the door. It was soft beneath my toes. Across the yard, our red Chevy Blazer was parked under the carport that stood to the left of the garage. In front of it sat two wooden deck chairs. At one time, the chairs were painted a dark reddish-brown, but the sun and the rain had wore them down and chipped away the varnish to a dull dirt color.

There, in the moonlight, I first saw her.

She was dressed all in white—the fabric of her skirt loose and flowing, the bottom of it brushing against her bare feet. Her sand-colored hair shone under the bright August moon, falling just below her shoulders. From that distance, in the darkness, I could not clearly see her face.

As she walked, she seemed to be studying the ground at her feet, gliding slowly through the half-light like a restless apparition. When she reached the first chair, she ran her fingers along its arm. Then, I watched as she bent down and looked beneath it, her cheek just inches from the pavement.

What is she doing? I wondered.

I pressed my nose to the cool glass window while the woman continued on her way, her eyes still roaming over the ground as she walked. Every now and then, she would pause and turn to look behind her, as if expecting someone else to be there. When she reached the second chair and stopped to look beneath it, the thought erupted in my brain. I heard it, as if I had actually spoken it aloud.

My mother is looking for me.

I reached for the lock on the door and turned the deadbolt with a snap.

I tried desperately to call out to her, Mom! Mom, I’m here!” but my jaws seemed welded shut.

I was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of urgent desperation. My stomach churned. I fumbled with the handle of the screen door, my clumsy four-year-old fingers unable to release the stubborn latch. Clutching it with both hands, I squeezed with all my might, grinding my teeth together in panic. Suddenly, there was a loud click, and the door popped open.

I watched the woman turn and begin to walk away from me.

My heart thumped wildly in my chest and my breath came in short, choked gasps. I still could not speak, though in my mind I was screaming.

I stepped into the still August morning. There was not a sound, not even a whisper as the world slumbered. The pavement was rough and cool beneath my feet.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed me firmly by the shoulder and spun me around.

“Lori, honey? What are you doing?”

I stared at my mom’s face, blinking in confusion. Her old green bathrobe was tied hastily over her cotton nightgown. Her short brown hair stood crazily on her head where she slept. Behind her round glasses, her eyes looked worried and tired.

“Come on,” she said, ushering me back inside and locking the door behind us. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

I turned and looked out the window, but the woman was gone.

Mom tucked me back into bed and kissed my forehead. On the bunk above me, Lindy rolled over with a sigh.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Mom said. She turned out the light and retreated to her
bedroom where I could hear my dad snoring loudly.

Lying in the darkness, hot tears burned my eyes as the thought played itself over and over in my mind.

She’s gone. My mother is gone.

About the Author Lori Romano

I am a writer, photographer, wife, mother, dog owner, half-assed housekeeper and a self-proclaimed coffee and chocolate addict. One day, I will write a book.

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