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.