Emotional Interlude

I think at this juncture it’s an appropriate moment to break down the fourth wall for a post, as I think I need to explain some of my thoughts and my motivations for what I’ve been doing and hope I continue to do in this blog.

There are three important points to keep in mind in all that I share, and I plan to explain my current understandings of these things.

First, I’m not letting my parents go, even while searching for my biological parents.
Second, I’m entitled to have emotions (every single one), and rant, if I need to, especially given how I have been handling and how I will continue to handle the news about my adoption.
Third, I’m traveling a road in which I’m stuck between the rational and irrational, as well as logical verses emotional.

I point these things out because I’ve been asked by numerous people a variation of the following question:

“After all this, will you ever speak to your parents again?”

I’m shocked by this, first and foremost, because that comment’s basis involves the same reasoning and logic used by my parents in order to not tell me about my origins.

My mother might deserve to never speak to me again for so many reasons. But, as I have previously said, even with a soul as shattered as hers is, the love she offered me was freely and liberally given to me. I regularly tell my students that I will not ask them to do something which they are incapable of doing, so why would I expect less from my own mother? I cannot expect her, in all her limitations, to have ever told me when it was beyond her because I was, and am, her son.

My father does not deserve the full scope of my ire either. He has always attempted to treat me well, in his way. Not only have so many people reached out to tell me that he spoke with regularity about telling me, but he has repeatedly reached out to talk to me in this maelstrom of madness. His choices are not be the choices I would’ve made in terms of what he said in this tumult (I’m well aware that what my father has sent me is not really appropriate, and much more about him), but his heart was, and is, in the right place.

I will offer this: if you have thought that I would wish anything bad to happen to my father you are mistaken. I do not wish or plan to cut him off and never see him again. I might need space now and then, but he’s an inextricable part of my life. Cutting him off would be like attempting to remove a part of what helped make me who I am. It would be akin to the impossibility to remove my love of coffee.

Much like my earlier statements about not changing who I am, my parents are always going to be my parents. No matter what, they raised me. That detail influenced me in ways I can’t begin to imagine, and it will always be through them that I came to view the world. I’m incredibly thankful that they raised me and gave me so much, even if I can, in retrospection, see their many flaws and limitations. Additionally, in how I was raised, the idea that there could be more people in my life, who could potentially add something, is a blessing, not a curse.

But the question of will I maintain a relationship with my parents is also, singlehandedly, the only thing that has caused me to feel the rage that so many apparently seemed to think they would be feeling. Fury like no other builds in me when I am asked this question, for the exact same reason it flared when my father told me he was scared to tell me. It’s not a choice between my parents or a search for my biological ones. That’s a false dichotomy, and unfair to everyone involved.

I repeat: I’m not, nor have I been, mad at the lack of knowledge concerning what was and was not shared with me about my background. I’m hurt by it, but not angry. I’m angry because the question about whether or not I will abandon my parents implies that I’m a petulant child who will run from the people who love me (even if that love is imperfect) and, more importantly, stings that much more because there’s someone who thinks that I am capable of running from my family.

I am horrified that someone could and would think so little of me that I would turn my back on the people who loved me so much that they sought out a child, were lucky enough to find me and adopt me, raised me to be a compassionate adult, and did everything they were capable of to show me they cared.

Ultimately, the main conclusion I’ve had in this month is that I’m still me. Though the ingredients are drastically different than what I thought them to be, the outcome is still the same. My genetics teamed with my experience, thus far, have shaped me into who and what I am. My parents are part of my experience. I would never consider giving up one moment of my experience, because it would change who and what I am.

And I really like who I am.

Finding out I’m adopted doesn’t really change anything. It can’t take away my accomplishments, or dreams, or favorite things. My memories of the places I’ve visited, the movies I’ve watched, the friends I’ve made, all of these things are not impacted by this revelation at all. In fact, I’m even more proud of all I’ve accomplished, though I didn’t know, because, even more so, I made my life happen the way it has. Again, my parents were, and are, a part of that. They will also continue to be a part of that (that is, if my mother was still in the picture. But my father still is, so why wouldn’t he be a part of my life?)

I suppose that I’ve always believed that biology creates the starting formula for everyone’s individual make up, but, in the spirit of the tabula rasa, what you write on your blank slate helps shape the blueprint into a more fully-realized person.  Therefore, my story wouldn’t have been the same without my parents, my friends, the places I went to school, the countries I visited, the things I’ve done. Any number of situations could have equally affected the outcome of who I now am.

I’m an amalgam of both what I am and what I’ve experienced. And my parents are part of that experience. Therefore, being adopted ultimately changes nothing

Yet it changes everything too.

Which brings me to the second point.  I’m allowed to feel. More importantly, I’m allowed to feel each and every emotion, and, just so you know I’m in the throes of many, simultaneously. So far, I’ve been describing all the different emotions I’ve been experiencing, as they happened. I’m acutely aware that over the past week’s posts I’ve gotten increasingly frustrated, annoyed, and angry.

You probably would too if you found out after 33 years you were told a lie repeatedly and numerous people (read: thousands of people) were not only complicit in, but helped to perpetuate, this lie.

Part of my emotional turbulence is centered around the realization that I must now reevaluate many different aspects of my life, beginning with the people who I believe have loved and cared for me throughout my existence. What am I reevaluating? In the topsy-turvy world in which I now live, I have been forced to ask myself the following questions as a result of finding out about my adoption:

Do these people actually care about me, or was it the adoption?
Did they initially pretend to care about me because I was adopted, and are they still pretending they care?
Did they initially pretend to care about me because I was adopted, and have they developed genuine feelings?

Could they really have cared about me, if they knew and didn’t share anything with me?

Could I expect them to have shared anything with me, if they truly do care?

And, most importantly,

How could anyone who actually knows me think I would abandon them, when I would do anything for the people I care about?

These questions are mostly irrational and concern my third point, as it is the intersection of rational and emotional thought where I find myself living these days. I honestly feel as if I’m now only able to look at the world through 3D lenses. You know, the ones where one eye’s lens is red and one lens is blue? Through them, the world’s landscape can now be seen as red through one eye, blue through the other, as well as simultaneously purple together. My rational mind is attempting to make sense of this new way of seeing the world in three colors concurrently, but the only answers are only found through asking (often difficult) questions.

But the problem is, while I understand, rationally, that the above questions are likely not true, because the last one is even being asked (and it is so deeply connected to who I am fundamentally as a person), I must ask all the others. If, through some far-fetched and unlikely possibility that even one of these questions is answered in the affirmative, then all of them could be.

This possibility feeds my struggle in understanding everything, because the mere fact that I have to ask these questions leads me down the path of darker emotions where I am hurt and lonely and confused and betrayed, and those are not emotions with which I wish to live. I know they exist, but I’m working to accept and dismiss them so that I can move forward. Until I do, I can’t repair anything.

And all I want is to heal and grow.

However, that is incredibly, unbelievably, undeniably difficult.

And, what complicates my emotions and my experience is when people suggest to me that I should give my dad a break. You’re asking me to ignore myself, and my needs, my emotions, and my truth, and put one, both, or all of the people who helped to orchestrate this nightmare before myself, so that everything can be normal again.

Except nothing will be truly normal again for me. And it’s far too much to ask me to ignore my pain right now.

You all seem to forget, like my father and mother, so many of you knew my truth. You knew it far before I did. And you have all had time to process this information for 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 33 years.

I have had less than a month.

Allow me the same graciousness I have offered to my parents and to you, in terms of not turning my back on anyone, and sympathize with the frustration and rage and sadness and betrayal and loss for being forced to change my awareness of the world I thought I knew my place in.

I need everyone to accept that I am currently confused and frustrated, especially those who have been in my life since the beginning of this saga. I do not blame anyone for what has unfolded, nor am I furious with anyone for not sharing a secret that was not theirs to share. But I am asking you to please remember that I’m still a person who has been forever altered by this information. A person who now knows the words of the origin story, but not the alphabet in which it was written.

Yet even knowing that, I refuse to see myself as a victim, or the lead role in some sort of Greek tragedy (I suppose we honestly have no idea what kind of tragedy this might be). So I will do my best to continue to focus on the good and pure things in my life, and allow them to help me emphasize the best parts of my experience and my journey. The light and love that has been shared with me by so many has helped me more clearly see my truth.

But remember, after years of living in the shadow of these lies, I’m also allowed to bask in the truth. And more importantly, I’m allowed to relay that truth to the world, because I adamantly refuse to not cast my own light onto this situation.

That light will continue to be reflected and refracted back toward me and those whom I love, and it allows me to know, without question, I am loved and that I am stronger than I ever imagined.

I’ve accepted that everyone has their own limitations; but other people’s limitations don’t define me. In fact, I refuse to be limited by anyone’s expectations anymore. That’s why I’m writing all of this.

My story is different.

I may not write everything correctly, I may make some of you uncomfortable, and I may share things in a way which makes it seem that I’m doing fine.

Let’s be kind, and remember that the truth can hurt. But if we walk in the light, at least we’ll see where we’re going…

Together.

Are you there God? It's me, Jonathan. (Yes... God. No... not you dad.)

Upon returning home, I sat in my living room with my two roommates, and recounted the evening’s events. For two of my favorite people to be enraptured, as well as gobsmacked, as I shared my story of how things went.  That they sat with their mouths agape was ever so slightly satisfying. At least, it led me to believe that I wasn’t overreacting or responding unreasonably to the “facts” my father shared with me.

They asked many of the questions I had also thought as my father spoke… “In a diner? Really?” and “No way. A subway platform? Seriously?” But most importantly, they were shocked that my father’s first reaction was of himself, as he shared his overwhelming relief without any concern for me or my well-being. The two guys that I live with, granted who I love like brothers, reacted with genuine shock, confusion and support, which was, quite frankly, exactly what I needed after the dinner with my father.

It made me feel loved, and that I wasn’t alone.

They questioned how my father had shared such a bizarre narrative based upon his understanding of my adoption being ordained by God. I mean, to shorthand it, my father prayed at the Wailing Wall, and an occupied uterus somehow appeared in front of him days later. With almost no coaxing, my birth mother gave me to my parents, under pain of death that I’d never find out. So, 33 years passed, many secrets were shared with everyone but me, and, ultimately, I’m supposed to accept that this is God’s will?

As we continue to discuss this, I get a text message from my father. Now, he is in his 80s, and he does struggle a bit with technology, but it would appear that there is a new filter for text messages, instead of pictures. I say this, because it is clear we shared different experiences at dinner.

“Dear son….I have the documents….I went straight to B and he gave them to me.. You may come and get them at any time… what a night never to be forgotten what a thanksgiving prayer fest I will have tonight… Jonathan I am here for you forever and ever. Dad.”

First reaction—my adoption paperwork was available for me. I needed to get that as soon as possible. I could find out my parent’s names. I needed to start researching, and finding out information. I should get it soon.

Then it hit me… Hold on… What exactly did he have to be thankful for? Oh, right. The relief from shouldering the burden of the secret about my adoption, which he could have shared with me AT ANY POINT in my 33 years. Also, the fact that someone else did his job for him. I mean, its hard work holding on to a secret that you shared with thousands of people, I’m sure. No wonder the weight was lifted from his chest.

How do you even respond to that? By not responding. Partly out of disbelief, partly out of the need for some space, and partly because it was after 9:00 and I still had to get up for school the next day and I didn’t have the energy for a prolonged exchange with my father.

And then I got this at 10:34:

“I wish I could have stayed with you all night… I had to drag myself away… but I knew that you need space and time to digest all of this on your own but I wanted to stay with you to comfort and support you dear Jonathan…And I am in my heart right beside you…. Right now.”

Oh, OK. He wanted to give me support. That’s good. That’s showing caring!

Except he left the restaurant before I got back from the bathroom.

It must have been that he drifted away without that weight on his chest.

And he wants to be close to me… via text message. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s passive aggressively the closest you can be to someone.

I’m really glad I also got all that space, since we were about two hour out from dinner. I’d clearly processed everything about my adoption, come to grips with it, and realized it was all part of God’s plan. All because my father had reached out through text message.

Huzzah!

Whereas the first message sent by my father after dinner I didn’t feel merited a response, this one didn’t deserve one. How could I respond when, in less than two hours, he had altered the narrative of what occurred at dinner (which we both experienced) in his own mind so drastically that there was misguided thanksgiving and false support? How could I reconcile his messages with everything he’d told me? Was anything even remotely true?

The short answer is that I couldn’t, and still can’t, know what’s real. Every time I try to grasp at what I think makes sense, the world inverts again. When I think I understand the nonsensical events of my life and think they can’t get stranger, things take a trip to the underside.

Sadly, it did help me to realize that the cowardice of my parents was not banished that evening after speaking the truth. Just because things were addressed, doesn’t mean that it was gone. It would just rear its head in new and unique ways, just as it had throughout the past five years, and, in all honesty, throughout my life.

Additionally, this forced me to realize very literally that the things that didn’t make sense about the story my father spun, very well might not have been accurate. What was I going to do to in order to find out the truth? Who could I talk to? He was, in many ways, my only link to this information. It already didn’t match with what Xena had said, and what my friend E confirmed.

Can’t a guy get a break?

Two days passed. I attempted to process. I forced my way through the school day, which was made easy because my students excelled at each of the tasks I’d given them this year. I was energized much more than I ever imagined I could be with this maelstrom of misinformation surrounding me.

And then, at 9:26 on Friday evening, I get the following message from my father:

“My Son…. I now know how God must have felt when He looked down and saw his beloved Son in the agony of Gethsemane.  He could only cover His presence in darkness as he watched His son ….in silence…. That’s how your dad is now suffering… Just one word from you would ease my breaking heart… forever your dad….”

Yes, you read that correctly. I had to reread it at least three times before I started screaming at my phone.

Did he REALLY just ask ME to help him with HIS suffering? WITHOUT ever being asked if I was okay?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?

This has to be a joke. There’s no way someone could do that… unless he was a narcissist.

Oh wait…

I sat in my living room. I read the text to my buddies. I sent a screenshot to a few friends. They all had some choice suggestions, once the general anger and disbelief cleared.

“Don’t send anything. Just don’t respond.”

“Send just one word. But only one. After all, it is what he asked for.”

“Send two words. Pick an expletive and follow it with ‘you!’”

Again, struggling with the rage I felt, but didn’t feel comfortable taking out on this man who is clearly so damaged, I answered an hour later with the following response:

“I’m OK.

But this is not about you.

I am processing information that should have been shared with me years ago, and have had less than a week to do so.  I need some space to process what you’ve known for 33 years.

It’s incredibly selfish of you to ask me to cater to your needs when you haven’t asked me at any point how I’m doing.  I’ll be by on Sunday to get the paperwork.

Please respect my need to have some space.

I’m heading to bed. Please don’t respond tonight.”

I somehow put my phone down, and calmly headed to bed.

The brokenness, in distinct ways, of both my parents altered my life in such finite and infinite ways, and the edits and alterations to my story, honed over the course of my life, left me with even more questions. But these questions were not limited to my adoption—they now expanded to questions about who I was as a person, my values, my beliefs, and how I would react to this as a person, a parent, and a friend.

Questions about what kind of people my parents truly are, how selfish and child-like they are, and how much of my life I acted more as an adult and they the children in our interactions.

Thankfulness, again, at the kind of people in my life who share my understanding of how insane all of this is, who take the time to understand me, who were checking up on me, who clearly love me.

            But, I needed answers. So, naturally I called someone who was there with firsthand knowledge to help me make sense of things… My Adopted Grandmother.

A Questionable Narrative

Before I begin his explanation, I feel the need to invoke the disclaimer that any stories which involve either of my adoptive parents at this point are to be treated with a general distrust, until proven accurate. Much, much more on this reminder later.

The story technically begins with my mother having a very bad miscarriage around 1981. As she dealt with the pain, my parents moved to and lived in Israel for the next two years, so my father could direct and produce two live action productions. One was a live Nativity play, the other a live Passion play, about the Easter story. They had to leave, however, as war erupted.  My father stayed behind briefly to finish his affairs. He also took this time to go to the Wailing Wall.

The Wailing Wall is a place of significance in Jerusalem, where it is traditional that you to pray for things with which you are struggling. Naturally, as my parents were unable to have a child, he prayed at the Wall, and offered up a lifetime of service as payment for a child to God. He shoved his prayer, written down, into one of the cracks of the wall, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed for a family to come together through divine intervention.

A few weeks later, upon returning to the US, my father was in Washington DC at a diner/grille. As he ate, he noticed a younger woman who was clearly pregnant. Their eyes kept meeting throughout his lunch, and so he did what any extrovert longing for a child would do—he spoke to her upon his departure.

“How wonderful it is that you are able to bring a new life into this world!”

“Too bad I can’t keep it.”

My father immediately sat down with this young woman and began to talk with her about the reasons she couldn’t keep the baby. He explained to her that this was clearly God’s doing, bringing them together like this.

In doing so, he convinced her to consider him and his wife to be the potential parents of her child. He did tell her that the child would never know of the adoption, and she readily agreed. They planned to meet a week later to discuss either parting ways or moving forward.

The next week, they met again, and cemented an agreement. He would pay for all the hospital visits, and she would give him her child. There would be no contact between her and her child, and that was what she wanted. It was an answered prayer.

When my biological mother went into labor, my father immediately went to the hospital. After I was born, my she held me, and I cried and cried. The instant she handed me over to him, I stopped crying. I, of course, stared lovingly at my new father, as a sign from God that I was, in fact, his. Upon returning to my mother’s arms, I began to wail again. My place was clearly with my father and mother, and not with my birth mother, as it was clearly ordained by God.

But, there was a problem. Child and Protective Services wanted to take custody of me. The doctor, taking pity on my father’s plight, placed a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the nursery door, so no one could take me.

This allowed my father to get official documentation from both biological parents, showing consent for my adoption. My birth mother was in close proximity, but my biological father was more difficult to pin down. According to my father, this man wouldn’t come to the hospital, or allow my father and his lawyer to come to his house/apartment. Therefore, the only possible option was to meet at a Metro station, close to my biological father’s home, to sign over custody to my father and mother.

The story isn’t done yet… not by a long shot. My release from the hospital was still done quietly, though the paperwork was signed. At any point in the next year, my birth parents could reclaim custody. My adoptive parents were so worried! What if they tried to reclaim me?

As they waited for the adoption to be finalized, a court representative had to meet with my parents to ensure that it was a safe environment for me. After interviewing them and visiting our home he told the judge that if for whatever reason the court decided to not grant my custody to my parents, that HE would like to be adopted by them.

Throughout this tale, I was told at least two or three more times about how relieved my father was, how much the weight had been lifted off his chest. How there were so many examples of how God brought me to my parents.

I asked why so many others knew, but I did not. He explained that, they had to know, because when he and my mother showed up to church with a baby, people obviously wondered where I came from. So they were told… as were his choir members… and his former students… and my friend’s parents… and then my friends… and, in some cases, some of his students and their families… Pretty much everyone in my life (and many who were outside of any direct circle of mine) knew.

When I pointed out how wrong that was, and that he was, from all accounts I’d so far received, the only one who could and should have told me the truth, he agreed and said “I know…. I know…. Sweetheart, I know…. I couldn’t…. Your mother wouldn’t let me. The three times I tried to tell you, your mother interrupted me.”

Oh. Ok. Three times. There were surely only three opportunities to tell me. It’s not like he was ever alone with me.

Except, he drove me to school every day. It was a 35 minute trip. He drove me for French Horn lessons from middle school through high school… it was close to an hour each way. He could have told me at home, you know, since we lived together, or in any other way possible, but the statement that he couldn’t floored me.

Then: “I mean, I told you once.”

“You did?!?”

“Yes… you were four. You asked ‘What’s adopted?’ and I said ‘Well, we’re all adopted… by Jesus.’”

Oh, good. I’m glad that he explained to a four-year-old me the intricacies of adoption using a poor metaphor involving religion, because, of course, God gave me to him (please note, not to him and my mother. Just him. Though he had two other children, and my mother desperately wanted a child. Not her. Just him.).

And I’m not frustrated that he couldn’t bear to explain to me that he loved me so much before even meeting me that he literally found me (granted, I was inside a stranger’s uterus, but still… God brought that uterus to him, which is like the same thing, right?).

It was clearly too difficult to explain that my mother couldn’t have children, and that I was so wanted that they took this opportunity to show a child all the love they had. I totally understand why that was so hard for them. Obviously. Because #God and #prayer.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What were you afraid of?”

“We didn’t want to tell you as a child. Then, the longer it went, we became more afraid you would leave us.”

So… not only were my feelings and needs not accounted for, but they were much more worried about themselves. The need to perpetuate the lie that I was actually my mother’s child superseded my need to know that I’m not genetically related to them. Additionally, and quite possibly more painful to me, my parents clearly have no actual idea of what kind of person I am, and lied to me on the off chance that I might have left them.

My shock was real. I was speechless.

My ultimately parents lied to me because they don’t know me as a person. This means they are unaware of how dedicated I am to everything I do. They somehow thought I would run away from them if I found out, when the opposite would have been true. They couldn’t understand that I don’t see blood as the only indicator of family. They didn’t think I had the integrity to know who my family was.

That’s not devastating at all.

“Do you have my adoption paperwork?”

“Yes. It’s at B and B’s house.” (They are family friends who live locally.)

“Why don’t you have it?”

“Well… I was concerned your mother might get to it.”

Great… So my mother so desperately needed to perpetuate a lie about her relationship to me, that she was willing, and potentially wanted, to destroy my adoption paperwork, lest I find out the truth.

This just gets better and better. Who were these people that raised me?

At the end of the dinner, my father’s excitement for the truth finally being revealed was visible. He told me how happy he was that we could begin a new chapter. You know, an honest chapter. Where have I heard that before?

I was unsure where this “we” was the last 33 years. I wasn’t included in the decision to keep me in the dark, or when others were told casually about my adoption, yet I was not. I had no say in so many areas, I didn’t know how to respond without screaming.

So, as we got up, my father gave me a very awkward hug. He told me that he’d get me the paperwork ASAP. I went to the bathroom.

As I emerged, my father was nowhere to be found. He had left me while I was using the facilities. How unbelievably predictable.

I have never felt more abandoned, which is saying something, given the news five days before that I was adopted.

But then I remembered that my father was relieved. So, what am I complaining about?