In Loco Parentis
What is the actual definition for that?
Lucky for you guys I got one.
Being responsible for a child while the child's parents are absent.
My parents are absent. They have been for the past 16 years of my life.
Most who live in adoption agencies have questions. Questions they want to answered.
They range from...
'Where did I get my hair colour from?'
'What's my heritage?'
'What's my last name?'
These weren't the questions I asked myself. That's because, I thought I wasn't ready to find out the answers. I'm not quite sure I'm ready now.
These weren't the question I asked others. That's because, I knew they wouldn't have the answers I so desperately desired.
Though I did ask myself two questions. The first question always lingered at the back of my mind. You'll probably laugh at this one. And now you'll look confused.
It's the truth though you'll laugh because, this question is the most classic one, I'm sure you've all heard of it by now. It's recorded in every book, newspaper, television, it's been practiced plenty of times in front of the mirror I'm sure of it. I know I did!
It's classic line of… You Ready for this?
'Who are my parents?'
That line. Four words. Five syllables. Oh how I loath them!. It's been thought and spurted by every orphan. Practically begging to be said! Screamed! Bellowed! Calmly! Hitting every corner of this person's mind. Torturing the orphan until they can't take it anymore to the point it feels like a knife repeatedly being stabbed in a wound and twisted over and over and over and over until their mind explodes eventually, releasing the pain they've been holding in for years. Releasing the pain as if it's poison!
Question number 2:
'Why?'
'Why did someone, whoever it was leave me here?' In this hell hole! I'm referring to the orphanage (to those of you who are confused) which really does resemble how I think hell would be like.
Spence-Chapin Adoption Service.
The bane of my life. Of all the years I've been here.
But I bet that you guys don't care that I'm an orphan. You mostly care about the fact regarding who am I. Who is this stranger that's telling us of her thoughts and feelings?
Well, that brings me to now.
The young girl who's staring out of her window with tears in her eyes wishing she didn't have agoraphobia. Wishing she didn't have social anxiety. Wishing she could trust easily as she did when, she was five. The time when, she still had her innocence. Wishing she could be that young girl oblivious to the nasty terrors of the world. Fast forward 16 years and here she is standing in the room she didn't have share with anyone because, she was cautious of everyone and everything.
That young girl. She's me!
My Name...
Lucy