Let's start at the very beginning....

Believe it or not, this journey started with an email.

A four-year-old email.

From a stranger named Xena.

No, not that Xena. She’s not real. And this is all real. Seriously. My life is too ridiculous to not be real.

This begins with me attempting to delete what was clearly a spam message in my Facebook Messenger. Unbeknownst to me, there is a special folder for messages which are sent to you, but from those to whom you have no connection. So, I began by deleting a message from a young man from Africa who “was in need of a help…”

There was another message from a former neighbor, chastising me for treating my mother poorly (much, much more on that later (I promise you, I’m not treating my mother poorly. Which, I suspect you’ll believe more if you keep reading)). A third was very sweet—from the mother of a former student who was inviting me to her daughter’s birthday party (I’m a teacher). And, finally, the message from Xena. That was sent in January of 2012. It had been sitting in this special folder for four years.

I don’t know exactly why I didn’t delete it immediately. But, given that I read quickly, the first sentence seemed personal, so I kept reading.

“J--,

I write to you in secret, under a false name for a reason. Yet, please know this is from so many people, not just one. You are loved...by so many. Over the years your church family, friends, and loved ones have seen you grow into a wonderful person. Like many, I remember when you were a little boy. Your parents were so proud of you, they loved you so much. You were filled with talent and that was nurtured by them. However, your parents have something that tears them apart daily. 30 years ago your mother wanted nothing other than a baby. After trying unsuccessfully, your father learned of a music student who was young and pregnant (if I remember correctly both of your biological parents were musicians). She did not want to keep the baby. Your father made contact with the girl and asked to her baby a home. After attending her birth, he brought you home to a church and a family who instantly fell in love. Your parents never talked about "telling you" because it never came up...until your mother proudly announced to everyone that would ask that she would "never" tell you. You were her son and that was all that mattered.

Over the years, your adoption has been openly discussed among those who "knew J-- and F-- when". Except when your mother was around. Your father has often discussed in private circles wanting to tell you, and has even pleaded with your mother, but out of respect, he has never said anything. This email isn't being done to upset you, or "ruin" your life. On the contrary, this is to give you an insight of to who you are -- truly. Everybody deserves to know this. Your mother will probably deny the truth, to preserve herself...because she believes you truly are her blood. But the rest of the hundreds of people who know and care for you, would tell you differently. If asked. Including your father. This email will not go any further. You can choose what you wish to do with this information. Just know that it is 100% the truth.”

I sat on the couch speechless for a few seconds.

I was adopted?!? Seriously?!?

I mean, we’ve all had those moments where we wished that we, perhaps, weren’t really related to our family. But… to not actually be related to the people I considered mother and father? Could it be true?

I ran upstairs to my roommate, and shoved my phone, with the message cued, at him.

“Read this…”

“Wha…..?”

“Read this. Now.”

“Ok…”

“If this is true, what is my family medical history?”

I mean, in general, I’m fairly even-keeled and level-headed person. I immediately recognized that the most pressing question I had was, of course, about my family medical history.  That I had been offering my doctors the medical history of the people I believed were my parents my entire life was the most important problem I observed. Not who my parents actually are. Not why my parents lied to me for 33 years. Not how I could find out information about who I am. No. My medical history was much more important.

Huh. I guess that’s what emotional shock feels like.

I mean, suddenly I began to wonder who my real parents could be, and also how many people really knew about this, why my mother had told me about all the things I shared with her side of the family, and a million other things at once.

What is my ethnicity? I mean, I was raised my entire life thinking I was 50% British, and 50% Portuguese. If I’m actually a minority, and could’ve gotten scholarship money, I’m going to furious.

But, this couldn’t be real, right? What are the chances that someone would really write me with a fictitious Facebook account to tell me about this secret that my parents had neglected to tell me for 33 years? Negligible… right?

Except… except… except, so many thing started to rearrange in my brain. I mean… It would make sense.  My father is 50 years older than I am… My mother 39… My dad’s other two kids are much older than I am… 60 and 56 respectively…

I called a few friends, who were incredulous at this revelation. Yet… one immediately asked what my parent’s eye color is (both, in case you were wondering, are brown) and then asked what my eye color is (Green-hazel. I know. I’m stupid.). But this surely couldn’t confirm that they adopted me, right?

I left with my roommate and his wonderful girlfriend (again, keep reading to find out why) to get to our destination, close to the wedding we were attending the next day.

Cut to me laughing unexpectedly, and, honestly, slightly maniacally at things which were not particularly funny, throughout most of the next eight hours. I’m sure it was delightful for my companions. I also have new appreciation for what going mad feels like.

After accepting that I’m not getting a response from Xena, and I’m not going to call my father and ask if I’m adopted on the phone, I finally decided to pick the scab of this situation somewhat creatively. I called one of my oldest friends, E, whose family is strongly interconnected with mine. As she’s slightly older than I am, perhaps she had heard something? I call her and begin walking in circles in the rental house’s back yard.

So, I relate my story.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Comfort? Horror? Shock? Disbelief? Those would all be typical responses to this revelation, wouldn’t they?

Instead, the response I got was this: “How do you want me to respond?”

The wall of perceived reality in which I had lived for the past 33 years began to crumble.

“Um… well, given what you just asked, I think I beginning to understand whether or not this is true or not. But, I need you to respond honestly…”

“Ok… So, I promised myself that if you ever asked me, I’d tell you the truth.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that I’m adopted?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes… You’re adopted.”

“How long have you known?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever not known.”

“Oh…” I begin to slightly hyperventilate. “Oh…”

I got myself together as she consoled me a bit, and I kept it together until we said our goodbyes. Then I called my friend M, whom I’d spoken with earlier. This is the point which my brain comprehended what I’d just been told.

I’ll be honest, I fell apart. Full on sobbing, racking breaths, which, for me, is almost worse than death. I am (thought I was) British—we (they) don’t show outward emotion. I’m sure it wasn’t fun for my friend to hear me uncharacteristically fall apart on the phone, when we were over 100 miles away. I mean, I didn’t find it fun.

At this point, my roommate’s girlfriend, D, notices my distress. She literally ran to me and hugged me. I really needed that, though I’m generally not a fan of human contact. I was partly stunned that she cared, and partly stunned that she recognized that I needed that hug.

I continued talking to M for a few more minutes, as I calmed down. After calling a few other close friends and discussing this rather unexpected turn of events, and randomly picking a fantasy football team (completely random. I forgot, and auto-drafted many people. Priorities. Just because I was adopted, doesn’t mean that I didn’t need to pick a good fantasy team).

After finishing the important thing, the draft, I decided to retire for the evening.