Dispelling the Glamour

In tales of old, Heroes, as in the capital H varieties who fought monsters and evil, were typically demigods lauded for their prowess in battle, and praised for their physical and mental strength. I taught this for years, but never considered the loneliness that many of these heroes faced.

I’d like to be clear, I in no way think of myself as a hero, but the lessons of the epics still apply today, especially in this situation.

You see, one of the struggles with becoming a hero is that you develop a charismatic aura, a glamor, if you will, that develops once the protagonist has done something worthy. With each deed, that image of self is reflected to the public, and not only is this person seen as strong because he or she conquered the evil, but because they are seen as practically untouchable after defeating demons and their ilk.

Our modern equivalent is the use of defense mechanisms. If you hadn’t caught on, one of mine is humor. I turn most things into a joke, because it makes it easier for me to deal with them, especially if they are difficult, sad, or aggravating. I’ve never been a class clown type, but I do try to take the heat off of any given situation, if I can, by making some sort of self-deprecating or witty comment.

Thus, humor is the first layer of my own personal armor. The second is my intelligence. The third has always been honesty.

I’ve never really done well with lies or false statements. I like things to be factual, real, verifiable information. Show me in a book where you got that idea. What study are you using to support that thought? Yes officer, I was driving 14 miles over the speed limit—you’re correct.

However, I also use this honesty as a shield. I give people more than what they expect, but not typically the full story of everything I’m thinking or feeling. This gains trust, and allows the other person to think he/she are seeing the real, slightly vulnerable me. It is a calculated risk, using my intelligence and my desire for truth reflected in others.

But this is only a facet of who I am. It’s rare to have seen me cry, or exhibit an emotion other than happiness, joy, frustration, or disappointment. Few have really seen me angry, fewer yet actual devastation.

Therefore, with this preface, I realize that I come across strong because I make others laugh about my pain, which I disclose tactically and in small doses. This blog, in many ways, was to inform so many people at once about what I knew, but to try and give myself some distance to what I was actually feeling. The only problem was, I actually shared everything I was thinking and feeling, instead of just a part. My vulnerability, as a result, was much higher than I realized.

This brings me to a night I celebrated a friend’s birthday with many mutual friends and family. I knew that, more than likely, most people would know. However, only one or two had reached out to tell me so, and to show support. As the party was in October, it was encouraged to dress up for Halloween. I didn’t have a ton of time, but found a clever outfit that was simple for the event.

I showed up dressed as Waldo. But instead of having everyone find me, I had a nametag which read “Where are my parents?”.

I thought it was hilarious. My friends, not so much.

People laughed awkwardly as I arrived. One person even said something to the extent of “I’m glad you’re handling this so well…”.

Except I wasn’t, at least, internally.

The spectacle of all of this was still so real. I didn’t want people finding out in hushed whispers; there had been far too much of that for the past 33 years.

Instead, I wanted to embrace it, head on, with my twisted in-your-face sense of humor. So I did.

But I realize now that for many, it was too much. Especially since many friends, some whom I considered family, haven’t really spoken to me now in months, if not years.

I was angry about that for a while. How dare people leave me in my moment of need? I did my best to always be there for people I cared about. I was consistently a shoulder to cry on, or someone to talk to and offer advice. Why wasn’t I able to get that in return? How could I not be hurt by their callousness? The pain of not even being asked a genuine “How are you doing?” was second only to the general sense of betrayal I’d felt for weeks.  There was a slow, angry burn inside me for a long time, fueled by the silence of supposed friends who never once picked up the phone to check on me.

With time having passed, I realize two things now. The first is what I wrote about earlier—that when you are perceived as strong it’s difficult for others to know or be aware you need support.

In my experience, strong people gain their strength by surviving difficult situations. There’s so many metaphors about being forged in the fire of challenges, that we forget a fundamental truth—there’s often no discussion about support given to these strong people. And that is, that many people often disengage, so our strong hero is left alone to face whatever is plaguing him or her.

Dr. Seuss explains it well, in Oh The Places You’ll Go (one of my favorite books, which I read to my graduating students every year),

I'm afraid that some times
you'll play lonely games too.
Games you can't win
'cause you'll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.”

I’ve always been impressed by the wisdom of Dr. Seuss in that book, and this section, especially, explains something I’ve felt often during the past few years. To be honest, so much of the past two years have literally and figuratively scared me out of my pants.

As a classic over-achiever, it’s difficult to ask for help, so I expected that in a time of such an emotional upheaval as finding out about my adoption, everyone would come running.

Some did, and I’m forever grateful.

Many didn’t.

But maybe they would have if my armor wasn’t so thick, and they realized I was hurting.

Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing this now.

However, the second lesson is one that I’ve fought against for years, and that is that sometimes people grow apart because their experiences are only similar for a limited amount of time. And that’s ok. Not only is it ok, it’s important to part with fondness for each other.

This I’ve accepted to be true, because we all walk through life with different experiences, desires, dreams, and biases, and we pick up many more along our journey. Some people are the friends we need at that moment, to help or encourage us with a particular awareness for something, to assist in solving a problem faced, or help to develop skill you wanted to hone. Others evolve into forever friends, offering love, wisdom, and kindness freely, and become the family we choose.

Both types of friends are valid and cherished forever, I have always struggled with letting my people go, even if it’s clear we have grown apart, because the constancy of the friendship seemed more important than allowing something new to come along. While change is painful, pain is the only way to know that you are growing and changing.

Thanks to my chosen family, I know that I’m stronger now because you saw through, and sometimes fought through, my defense mechanisms. I’m forever grateful for your support, compassion, and kindness.

If you’re someone who hasn’t been an active part of my life over the past few months, know that while I miss you, I wish you well. Maybe we’ll reconnect one day.

Most of all, if you are like me and hate to show others your vulnerability because you’re afraid of being weak, I hope you begin to realize that there are many people who care about you. These people care so much that whatever kinds of metaphorical dragons you are facing, they’d fight them with you. But they can only help you if you let them.

My experience has been to learn to lean into those offering help. I’ve found that when you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you often find new avenues for strength in ways and experiences you couldn’t have guessed. Yes, there will be hurt now and then, but there will also be unexpected joy.

Embrace those around you, and your joy.

Not Quite a "But"-erfly

Following that difficult first few days back at school, I had a reprieve.  I was headed to Annapolis for a meeting at our State Association office for a group with which I was involved. It was likely that the meeting would take most of the day, so I wasn’t at my school.  Now and then, these kinds of days are needed by the local, state, or national association, in order for members like myself to continue the work of the organization.

I was glad I didn’t have to see people at school after feeling so raw the day before. Instead, I got to see educators at work in a different way. It oddly offered me a semblance of normality even though a few of them knew what had happened. A few people reached out and shared with me their thoughts and support, and we got started with the work at hand. It was perfectly distracting, and I was incredibly glad to be distracted in such a productive way.

As I drove home after the meeting, I thought about the past few days, about how many people had reached out, and were continuing to do so now that there were five posts up. Like much of what had been said, people shared kind sentiments, and wished me well… mostly. The sheer volume of comments and readership was surprising to me, as was the overall support. But then again, when thousands of people knew a secret about you, I suppose you’re bound to get some response...

My father had also reached out via text, which came as groups of multiple texts received in rapid fire succession, but were intended to be singular messages. For whatever reason, since he’s older and not great with technology, I thought he might not have access to the blog.

I was mistaken.

Through some of his texts, I was informed that a “mutual friend” was sending the posts to him when they were published each day.

On that day, he was not just offering his support, but also specific responses to what I was writing on the blog, namely his explanation for his reaction the night I confronted him about my adoption and what “actually” happened. He explained that he refrained from crying as we spoke because I asked him to. Then he fled the restaurant because he was so overcome with emotion, and, upon arrival at home, he burst into tears, and prayed to God about what had happened.

The subtext, at least as I read it: I’m sure you were hurt in finding out you were adopted. But I was hurting too! You just didn’t see it. It happened, really! Just like all the crazy details about your adoption!

The sub-subtext: Yes, what happened was bad. But, if you could look past all the pain, the hurt, the lies, and focus on what I was, and am still, feeling, that would be great, because I’m the real victim here.

Because of this, part of me appreciated that my thoughts were being shared with him, so that I didn’t have to reach out. I just didn’t have the energy. However, part of me was also annoyed, as irrational as it might have been, because who was betraying me that way?

Ok. I know it’s not a betrayal. However, anyone who was reading my posts daily, then choosing to find a way to get them to my father, to me, is going a bit out of their way to stir a pot that they have no involvement in.

Except they were and are involved. Because everyone who knew about my adoption was involved, even if they were just bystanders, even if they wanted to tell me. They’re still involved in the industrial sized net of lies my parents had created.  Some because they wanted to protect and support me, and some because they want to protect and support my father, yet, interestingly enough, none wanted to protect and support my mother. Granted, she is a convenient scapegoat, since she’s out of the country and not speaking to anyone at the moment.

So, it should come as no big surprise when I got a few different messages on my way home from Annapolis from people who felt inclined to reach out… you know, to offer a different perspective.

Again, in retrospect, I realize that these messages were sent with genuine kindness and concern for me. However, that concern in some cases was overshadowed by the distinct concern for my father.  These people understood that the secret about my origins is painful, for me, for my parents, even for them, because they felt unable to have told me. Reflective, two-years-later-me understands this now.

Emotional, in-the-moment me, on the other hand, reacted rather violently to these messages which I read after my father’s texts. I didn’t want to hear about support for my father, or my mother, who both lied to me for 33 years. Unfortunately for these people, and for myself, because I read my father’s texts first, the lens which all other messages were filtered through was less than flattering, as that lens from my father was about how things “really” happened, I just didn’t see it (just like so much of my life, apparently).

I was driving and definitely started shouting to myself in my car; it must have been either entertaining or terrifying to those driving next to me. No matter. They got a free show on the ride home.

No one said anything specifically hurtful; honestly, people were quite supportive. However, a few included phrases like “I’m sure you’re hurting right now, but…” and “think how your dad is feeling.” Because of the added qualifiers to offer exception to my pain in addition to those who mentioned my father shattered my superego and left my id in charge.

Why, you ask? Because none of them were adopted. Shocking, I know. It’s not really that often that you find people who have an exact match for your unexpected difficulties, which is why I attempted to be reasonable and not require that they recently found out they were adopted—after 33 years. The one strike was enough.

This is another example, for those who might be wondering, of my slow acceptance of the ride to crazy-town that I hoped was a return trip. First the paranoia had developed, at my friend’s wedding and at work. Next, the fear took hold, that nothing would be normal again.  Now the blind accusatory anger blossomed, directed at people who wanted to offer me their concern but happened to have done so after I’d been contacted by my father.

How ironic that, as an English teacher, I was getting a literal lesson on how important context is to a given situation.

In looking back though, I learned an important life-lesson—if you are offering support to someone going through a difficult time, never, EVER, use the word “but” in any sentence, in any way. Anything before a “but” is, ultimately, a lie in the moment. And, when used in a difficult situation, it could be interpreted that there’s at least one way the person being spoken to has a reaction that is wrong. Not only is that not true, but it’s not fair in any way, especially when people are raw from newly discovered emotional turmoil.

But, I must capture this for you all—that when you read messages that have the “buts” and the “think of how your father is feeling” it puts you on the defensive, in every way, especially when you feel as if everyone is looking at your every move, judging and/or laughing at you.

Suddenly, at your most basic level, it’s you verses them.

And when you realize that it’s only you against thousands of them, there’s either fight or flight.

I have apparently become a flighty fighter. I began to simply shut down, and stopped responding to people, even though they were doing their best, or they were reaching out to see how I was doing.

In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t say much to anyone, mainly because I know now I didn’t say anything that I regret.

Unfortunately, this meant that I stopped speaking or writing at all for a while, as you can see from the general gap in posts for the majority of the past two years. I will also remind you that as this is the 20^th post, I was writing posts far past the events in which they were happening. The good of this allowed me to process, somewhat, what I was experiencing, and not just digitally blurting stream-of-consciousness style on the page. However, this also means that other things were happening to impact me in real time, well beyond the events about which I was writing. We will get to these moments shortly.

With all of those interactions, messages, and texts from people, both in person and online, my energy level, much like my life and situation, felt like it was draining away ten times faster than I could replenish it. Additionally, finding ways to articulate how I was feeling to people was becoming, and has continued to be, a challenge since the revelation of my adoption, though it’s gotten much easier now. I began to descend into the muck of the depression, and for this reason, it became more and more difficult to write. I felt like I was facing multiple fronts at once, while attempting to maintain my daily life and work functions.

Something had to give. It ended up being my creative outlet, which was unfortunate, but it also allowed me to ever-so-slightly retreat into an imagined bubble.

So, now, I’m cracking my self-imposed shell and emerging as someone who is ready to examine and discuss what I experienced. OK, so it’s too trite to say that I’m a butterfly now. I haven’t evolved enough for that yet. But, I feel that I’m at least out of the chrysalis. And for now, that’s enough.

A New Chapter

Ok, I know. It’s been eight months since my last post, and my life has changed quite a bit. I decided to make a bold step and actually make my own happiness a priority, as I discussed in January. Writing made me happy, but I had trouble finding time to both write consistently and to collect my thoughts coherently and put them to paper. For that matter, I rarely found much personal time because of teaching and union activities, much to my extroverted self's chagrin.

For those who didn’t know, I made a large life-shift in July and I moved to Denver. There are many reasons for this move, which I'll eventually explain. I’ve been here almost a month and am finally feeling like I have the composure and clarity to continue to tell my story.

I’m looking at this change as a huge leap, physically and metaphorically, into the unknown to allow myself to gain fresh perspective on the things which have happened over the past two years. I needed to gain some distance to come to terms with who I am now, as I have grown and evolved so much in this process.

I’m looking forward to sharing many of the things which I’ve discovered, some painful, some which helped me gain understanding, and some which have brought me joy. I imagine, you, dear reader, might feel many of these things too.

Change is where the growth happens, and I’ve become increasingly more accepting that my life will always be about balancing the changes which occur around me. Some of that balance comes from accepting the things which have happened in the past that cannot be changed, and some comes from how I’ve chosen to deal with these new-found discoveries. These discoveries have been often unexpected, typically chaotic, but always important to my understanding of self.

Welcome back to this tale. Join me as I continue to learn balance in chaos.

To New Beginnings...

January 1, 2018

When I started writing, I didn’t know why I had a desire to put my emotions and words down on paper. I thought, I suppose, that it would help me process what had happened, which it did. I thought it might also help others who might have experienced similar things, and I’ve been assured by many that it has.

I realize now that I needed to write for me—to connect to a world that is much larger than I am.

I needed to document, for myself, what this journey has, is, and will continue to be. That doesn’t mean I’m not glad it’s helpful to others, but I need to do this for me.

I will go into more detail as I continue to write, but I need to say first that last year was the most difficult of my life. Explaining things, over and over again, to so many people, even those who’ve read the blog, did drain me. Though, I think I might have been able to handle that if that was the only difficulty.

What has been so hard to describe and what has been so difficult to explain is something that I wasn’t truly understanding until now. It’s pertinent to explain that I’ve spent my Winter Break visiting friends in Colorado. And I’m also crying on an airplane as I write this. I think you’ll understand why.

You see, the all-encompassing problem with my adoption has never been my adoption. It was the reality check that finalized what I hadn’t understood yet about my life and my family.

Finding out about my adoption forced me to see that what was missing from my life is the concept of a home—like the kind where your heart is. My home had been slowly eroding for years, because of a lack of real relationship to anyone in my family (through both lack of relationships and/or distance) which is apparently very common in adoptees. After I found out about my mother’s affair, and knowing that I had very little closeness to my father, when my parents finally officially divorced, and then sold the house I’d grown up in, I didn’t understand how lonely I felt.

This is not a lonely of a bad night when things haven’t gone correctly. This is the kind of bone-weary loneliness of someone who has no one to lean on, should there be any kind of issue arise, other than himself. The biggest lie I struggled with was the world in which I was raised not only no longer existed, but it hadn’t really existed at all.

What do you do when all the things you’ve based your foundations on are found out to be false?

And then what happens when you begin getting messages, with varied frequency, telling you how you should feel, or what “really” happened?

What happens when people you thought were always going to be in your corner never even reach out to see if you’re ok?

I cannot tell you where I, or this story, will end up. I’m a work in progress as much as everyone is. However, thanks to this trip this holiday, I’ve suddenly had an epiphany.

You not only have to make your own happiness, you have to make your own happiness a priority.

I’ll be honest—I like trying to do as many things possible to make other people happy. I’m starting to slowly realize that this has not made me happy, though I thought it would. This too is apparently something adoptees do, consciously or subconsciously, because it’s a way of addressing a constant fear that they might be taken away from the families and lives to which they have found their place.

Thus, an overachiever, who has always struggled to say no, who has worked his way through school since he was 14, has taken on more and more responsibility in various aspects of his life because he thought he had to, not necessarily because he wanted to.

For this reason, I have continually worked at the things which I do for my career, which are the things that are predictable, and therefore consistent in my life. In doing so, I’ve neglected finding a romantic relationship, relying on my friend-family to feed the part of my soul which needed love and support.

I have also realized that, though supported by others in many ways, I’ve worked to make my own success happen more than I realized. So, now I need to choose myself before I choose others, because I want to have my own home, shared with someone who loves me, to build my own individual support system.

Therefore, I’m writing this blog as a way to no longer just document my story, but to keep me accountable to finding my own happiness. One of those ways is to continue to share my story, so others can see there is a light at the end of any tunnel.

But know that it helps when you realize that sometimes the love you can’t find for yourself is in unexpected places, and being welcomed as a cherished friend/adopted family member is all you need to begin to right yourself. You just have to realize that love is there, and accept it.

Ultimately, the greatest lesson learned for me has been that family is not about blood, it’s about those who we let in, and who let us in. Like all things, family is what you make it. And I might not know where I came from, and I might not have the same home-base that I grew up with, but I have a family, and it’s bigger than I ever imagined.

And until the day that I have my own home, with my own traditions, I know now that I have a family that loves me, and that is enough to start me on a new path on this January 1^st, which begins with finding out what and who truly makes me happy.

Happy New Year.

One Year Later...

As I sit on my couch this Labor Day weekend, it’s so hard to believe that it’s already been a year since this journey began. One year ago, today, I read a letter from Xena Williams that impacted and changed my life forever.

So much has happened, and as I continue to share my experience, I think you’ll understand why I needed a bit of a break from writing about my journey. Time truly does offer a better perspective of many things.

I spent a portion of this evening rereading my original posts, and realized it had been over eight months since I last wrote anything and posted it. I have much more to share—I promise. Life gets in the way, and since it was between performing my duties so I can live and eat, or writing the blog, I chose the former.

To those of you who have been asking and waiting for the next post, thank you for your patience. I will begin regularly posting again soon.

To whoever Xena is—know that the most asked question I get is still “Who is Xena?” I have to say, I’m more than a little curious… so if you’re willing to come forward, on or off the record, I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done. It has changed my life for the better.

As I think you’ll see as I continue to write (and you continue to read), I needed the past eight months to more fully absorb and unpack all that has happened. It’s no easy task to explore who you are and from where you’ve come while trying to live your life. Frankly, I also have needed the time to understand the impact of many of the details, events, and experiences I’ve uncovered over the past year.

However, there are a few things to share here…

• First, finding out things about yourself and your family you never really wanted to know is difficult, but finding out the truth is invaluable… and also mystifying.
• I now understand why the holiday season can be experienced as a month of devastation, even if you’re invited to wonderful friend’s celebrations.
• When finding out life-altering information about yourself, you will eventually lose the desire to shout “I’m adopted!” at strangers when walking down the street. I’m living in that space now. It’s called growth.
• My friends are, hands down, some of the most wonderful, loyal, kind, supportive, and amazing people on earth. Full stop.

For tonight, that’s all. But know that I’ve appreciated the love, kindness, and support from so many of you. Thank you all. It’s made this journey more bearable.

Additionally, there are a few of you who have reached out after either sharing the blog with others, or after having the blog suggested to you by a friend. The fact that anyone has read this is mind-boggling to me, but it’s also extremely humbling. Furthermore, if this has actually helped or impacted anyone (and I’ve been told by more than a few that it has helped or influenced someone they know), I cannot express the words to explain how that has made me feel, and it is the reason I feel the need to continue writing my story.

So, again, thank you for reading. There’s plenty more to come.

First Day of School

In the process of writing and publishing, then traveling for the weekend for a wedding, and everything generally moving at the speed of light, it hadn’t occurred to me that my co-workers, many of whom are also friends on social media, would see and be reading my posts.

            I feel that it’s important to reiterate that I’m an extrovert by nature, and not afraid of people or public situations. Given my union activism, it would prove difficult to speak to officials and lobby for education if I were. I will often read a situation before responding, but when I do, I tend to speak my mind—about educational issues.

As for my personal life, and the events that occur outside of school, I don’t share much with people I only consider colleagues. In terms of my personal life, I prefer to be well into the shadows, out of the line of sight. Given the past few years, and all the awkwardness with my mom and dad’s divorce, then the insanity with my mother’s love life, a painful breakup with an ex last year for me, I don’t feel the need to share with everyone what’s going on with me for good reason.

Additionally, there have been times when at the lunch table where conversations have drifted toward questions about LGBTQ+ issues, and, as the resident member of that community, I’m the default spokesperson. While there have been moments of genuine interest or concern for me, I’ve also seen people literally shut off, turn away, or disengage when I speak about what it’s like to be gay. Or when I talk about going on a date. Or, if I speak about anything that involves something which makes them uncomfortable, which, as it turns out, is a large swath of my personal life.

That judgement is why I don’t love talking about my personal life or areas that overlap with my personal life with people with whom I am not close.

            Therefore, walking into school Monday was difficult. Again, I struggled with the idea that people were staring at me. But, the students didn’t know what was going on. And I walked into my room without anyone around. I was being paranoid.

            Except this time I wasn’t.

            I started my morning routine and walked into the teacher’s planning area. It felt as if everyone who was there stopped what they were doing and started staring at me. Some weren’t. But some were.

            And then began the conversations...

“Oh, I read your blog…”

“That’s so crazy!”

“What’s going on? What blog?”

So, first thing on Monday morning, I had to recount everything I knew about my current situation with work colleagues I largely don’t see outside of the building once I leave for the day.

It would be rude of me not to acknowledge that everyone who spoke to me mostly did so in a way that shared concern for my situation, and not entirely out of probing for lurid details about my life. Mostly.

Like much of this experience, knowing that people cared was comforting, even if I did have to articulate my pain a few hundred times. Ok. It wasn’t a hundred—it just felt like it.

At least I wasn’t entirely crazy for thinking people were looking at me anymore.

Getting into my typical daily routine was also helpful, and teaching was a welcoming distraction. Students would learn, and I would teach them, and that part of my life would progress as normal.

And then lunch came.

I was dreading it. Stuck in close-quarters, with no escape from people who would want to talk about it. Except, no one did, as the people I eat lunch with who I’m also connected to on social media were absent that day.  No one knew…yet. Small mercies.

I made it through the day. It was going to be ok.

Day two had fewer comments from co-workers, and I began to feel that I would be able to revert to some sense of normalcy.

Until I got to lunch.

            I walked in and saw a mostly full table, which meant everyone who typically came to eat lunch was present. I heated up my food in the microwave, and sat down. I was taking my first bite when my coworkers finished speaking about something. And then it began.

            “Jonathan… Wow. Just wow. How crazy to be going through all of this!”

            Now, more than ever, it felt as if a spotlight had zeroed in on me.  There was nowhere to hide, no corner to slink into.

            “Uh… Yeah. It’s all pretty crazy.”

            There’s no way I didn’t look like a deer in headlights; I certainly felt like one.

            So, naturally, those who I’m not connected to via social media started asking the obvious question… What’s up?

            Such a little question. Yet, obviously so loaded.

            I couldn’t ignore it, so I did what I’ve been doing in all of this—I met it head on and began to explain.

            Everyone was naturally dumbfounded and offered their support and concern, but I’ve never felt more naked or exposed in my life. To not only have colleagues know something so intimate about you, but to be placed in a precarious position by being prompted to tell them—it was beyond difficult.

I was still wrapping my head around the insanity of my situation, so to try to casually discuss my life with people I solely see within the confines of the school building, and then act calm, cavalier even, about my adoption was almost more than I could handle. I wanted to scream at them, to lash out, but that’s not fair.

Then again, what part of this process has been fair?

I would like to again point out that I know that my co-workers are, overall, kind and are sympathetic to my situation. These people, especially, were shocked and genuinely amazed at what I’d discovered.  I do not blame anyone for their desire to know about my situation, given that I’m also publishing it online. I’m continually reminded about how many people are showing caring, at least in their way. However, this lunch still taught/reminded me of two things.

First, I am not someone who enjoys pity. I enjoy comfort, or support, or sympathy, or empathy to something I’m going through. I do not enjoy having someone look at me and, with a slight smarminess, ask me “How’s it going?” knowing full-well that nothing for me is going well, and implying that everything for the person asking is fantastic. It’s rude and unkind. Every one of us has struggles; some people’s struggles just are bigger than yours some days. It doesn’t mean that you are above anyone else because tomorrow might be the day your karma is checked.

Second, I have also learned to be careful about when I ask anyone about something personal, lest I inadvertently overwhelm or hurt them with my attempt to show concern. Compassion, as well as tact, I continue to find, are things in short supply these days, and are often overlooked because of good intentions to offer sympathy, whether real or feigned.

After I divulged my story, I inhaled my lunch (gotta love the 25 minute lunch breaks of a teacher, especially when in this case I was left with about ten…), and returned to class, my fears revived that everyone was staring at the new adoptee, because after that spotlight session, they were.

A few deep breaths, and I reminded myself….

I’m fine.  It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Maybe one day soon, I won’t just have to pretend that this mantra was true.

Road blocks and dead ends...

Saturday, I traveled to Washington DC for the wedding of my best friend C’s sister. The bride and groom have become close friends of mine over the years. I was so excited for their wedding, and especially glad for a reasonable excuse to not worry about anything about myself or adoption-related. We became friends while I was in college, so neither the bride nor groom had any knowledge of my adoption. Therefore, I felt calmer knowing I’d be around their friends and family, none of whom had any connection to my past, other than C and her husband.

It was incredibly liberating to walk into the service because I had begun to have the uncanny feeling that people were staring at me everywhere I went. Have you ever felt the sensation that people are looking at you, even though you know, rationally, that they are not?  I legitimately feel as if people are often pointing and saying “Look kids. It’s the adult-adoptee! Can you believe he had no idea? How ridiculous!”

I fully realize this is not actually happening. In fact, I can even say that I am confident that I do not believe that everywhere I visit that people are even looking at me. But, with so many people who were apparently in on the secret about my adoption, it’s confounding and, frankly, has induced paranoia in me. I feel as if, in retrospect, many have gawked at me in silent horror or abject amusement, and now strangers were joining in too.

So naturally, in writing the blog, I increased my level of distrust, believing wholeheartedly that people were in fact pointing and laughing even more than the concerns I had already developed.

But, in attending a wedding that was in no way connected to anyone who should know about my situation, I felt intense relief.

That is, until mutual friends of the bride and groom, who are also friends of mine, came up to me to express their support. I’d forgotten that I’m connected to quite a few of the bride and groom’s friends through social media. One kindly expressed how heart-felt my first post was. Another simply stated “So, I hear there’s a blog…”

Then, at the beginning of the reception, two of my cousins called from the UK.

So much for an afternoon of anonymity, forgetting what was happening.

Don’t get me wrong—the call from my cousins was great. It was good to hear their voices, to know they cared, to share their support, and to tell me I’ll always be their cousin. That’s huge.

As for the mutual friends who saw me spoke to me, I want to express how much it meant to me that people who aren’t in my direct circle (or even indirect circle for that matter) had read and were expressing their own kindness and support.

And then the wheels in my head began turning… I’ve personally told C and her husband… and at least two have read the blog and told me so… So that’s a confirmed four who definitely know what’s going on with me… Do others… know? Is that why they’re looking at me in that way?

Then the slight (read: intense, core-encompassing) fear began. Should I have waited to publish the blog until after the wedding?

Surely, I’m not doing anything to upstage the bride or groom… right?

I mean, I will still be adopted tomorrow. I could’ve waited.

I’ve clearly made a terrible choice because I’m an emotional wreck. Will my friends understand? Was I a terrible person? Had I ruined the wedding?

So, in writing this, I fully acknowledge the heavy amount of crazy that I am radiating in this post. I can practically smell the weirdness, and I’m the one writing it. Remember, rationality meets irrationality.

As someone who is generally in charge of his faculties and reactions to most things, having intense emotional outbursts is not only out of my comfort zone, it’s out of my realm of understanding. I make plans, move forward, act and react. I am not often the one having to react to decisions out of my control.

But, I think we are all aware at this point that there is nothing typical about this situation. It, sadly, even makes sense that I have constant feeling of people looking at me, while feeling depressed that my presence is the downfall of whatever event in which I’m participating.

I can’t say that I’d fully realized that I was just starting my decent into my own personal emotional chasm, but let’s say that my toe was definitely in the water.

Eventually, I got over my moroseness and had a wonderful time. I stayed in DC that evening with a kind and gracious friend. We planned on getting brunch in the morning, after we walked to American University to look through yearbooks. He lived a few blocks from the school, and suggested we check it out. Maybe we could find pictures of my biological parents?

So, after a quick stop to get coffee, we made our way to the American library. I didn’t realize how excited I was—I might see what my parents looked like!

We walked inside, found the yearbooks in a range of years and started skimming through. I tried to tell myself that this was a long-shot, as they were likely grad students at the time I was born, but the adrenaline took ahold.

They weren’t in the first one… Maybe the next… Or, the third…

After thumbing through eight or nine yearbooks, I started to accept that they either were not students at American University, or were grad students, who are not photographed for the yearbook.

I released a breath, both literal and metaphoric, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I was no closer to finding out anything about my parents. I was exactly where I was two days earlier… when I thought it would be so easy to find information. Now I was treading the waters of despair in realizing how difficult finding these people was proving. No birth certificate, no school records… just nothing.

I cannot say that I was devastated, but I was more than a little dismayed by this turn of events. It was another defeat of my plan to find out where I came from. And another tiny tendril of sorrow took hold. If I had a job that I could leave at the office when I clocked-out, or didn’t work with my union many evenings of the week, then maybe I’d have the time devoted to tracking down these people.

But I didn’t, and still don’t.

How was I going to find these people? I knew the university was an unlikely possibility, but it was the last thing I had. Without a confirmation of my mother’s marital status and last name, or an address for where my father lived, I have very little information to search, and it felt like even less now.

What was I going to do now?