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 20th 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.
