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.