Dispelling the Glamour

In tales of old, Heroes, as in the capital H varieties who fought monsters and evil, were typically demigods lauded for their prowess in battle, and praised for their physical and mental strength. I taught this for years, but never considered the loneliness that many of these heroes faced.

I’d like to be clear, I in no way think of myself as a hero, but the lessons of the epics still apply today, especially in this situation.

You see, one of the struggles with becoming a hero is that you develop a charismatic aura, a glamor, if you will, that develops once the protagonist has done something worthy. With each deed, that image of self is reflected to the public, and not only is this person seen as strong because he or she conquered the evil, but because they are seen as practically untouchable after defeating demons and their ilk.

Our modern equivalent is the use of defense mechanisms. If you hadn’t caught on, one of mine is humor. I turn most things into a joke, because it makes it easier for me to deal with them, especially if they are difficult, sad, or aggravating. I’ve never been a class clown type, but I do try to take the heat off of any given situation, if I can, by making some sort of self-deprecating or witty comment.

Thus, humor is the first layer of my own personal armor. The second is my intelligence. The third has always been honesty.

I’ve never really done well with lies or false statements. I like things to be factual, real, verifiable information. Show me in a book where you got that idea. What study are you using to support that thought? Yes officer, I was driving 14 miles over the speed limit—you’re correct.

However, I also use this honesty as a shield. I give people more than what they expect, but not typically the full story of everything I’m thinking or feeling. This gains trust, and allows the other person to think he/she are seeing the real, slightly vulnerable me. It is a calculated risk, using my intelligence and my desire for truth reflected in others.

But this is only a facet of who I am. It’s rare to have seen me cry, or exhibit an emotion other than happiness, joy, frustration, or disappointment. Few have really seen me angry, fewer yet actual devastation.

Therefore, with this preface, I realize that I come across strong because I make others laugh about my pain, which I disclose tactically and in small doses. This blog, in many ways, was to inform so many people at once about what I knew, but to try and give myself some distance to what I was actually feeling. The only problem was, I actually shared everything I was thinking and feeling, instead of just a part. My vulnerability, as a result, was much higher than I realized.

This brings me to a night I celebrated a friend’s birthday with many mutual friends and family. I knew that, more than likely, most people would know. However, only one or two had reached out to tell me so, and to show support. As the party was in October, it was encouraged to dress up for Halloween. I didn’t have a ton of time, but found a clever outfit that was simple for the event.

I showed up dressed as Waldo. But instead of having everyone find me, I had a nametag which read “Where are my parents?”.

I thought it was hilarious. My friends, not so much.

People laughed awkwardly as I arrived. One person even said something to the extent of “I’m glad you’re handling this so well…”.

Except I wasn’t, at least, internally.

The spectacle of all of this was still so real. I didn’t want people finding out in hushed whispers; there had been far too much of that for the past 33 years.

Instead, I wanted to embrace it, head on, with my twisted in-your-face sense of humor. So I did.

But I realize now that for many, it was too much. Especially since many friends, some whom I considered family, haven’t really spoken to me now in months, if not years.

I was angry about that for a while. How dare people leave me in my moment of need? I did my best to always be there for people I cared about. I was consistently a shoulder to cry on, or someone to talk to and offer advice. Why wasn’t I able to get that in return? How could I not be hurt by their callousness? The pain of not even being asked a genuine “How are you doing?” was second only to the general sense of betrayal I’d felt for weeks.  There was a slow, angry burn inside me for a long time, fueled by the silence of supposed friends who never once picked up the phone to check on me.

With time having passed, I realize two things now. The first is what I wrote about earlier—that when you are perceived as strong it’s difficult for others to know or be aware you need support.

In my experience, strong people gain their strength by surviving difficult situations. There’s so many metaphors about being forged in the fire of challenges, that we forget a fundamental truth—there’s often no discussion about support given to these strong people. And that is, that many people often disengage, so our strong hero is left alone to face whatever is plaguing him or her.

Dr. Seuss explains it well, in Oh The Places You’ll Go (one of my favorite books, which I read to my graduating students every year),

I'm afraid that some times
you'll play lonely games too.
Games you can't win
'cause you'll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.”

I’ve always been impressed by the wisdom of Dr. Seuss in that book, and this section, especially, explains something I’ve felt often during the past few years. To be honest, so much of the past two years have literally and figuratively scared me out of my pants.

As a classic over-achiever, it’s difficult to ask for help, so I expected that in a time of such an emotional upheaval as finding out about my adoption, everyone would come running.

Some did, and I’m forever grateful.

Many didn’t.

But maybe they would have if my armor wasn’t so thick, and they realized I was hurting.

Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing this now.

However, the second lesson is one that I’ve fought against for years, and that is that sometimes people grow apart because their experiences are only similar for a limited amount of time. And that’s ok. Not only is it ok, it’s important to part with fondness for each other.

This I’ve accepted to be true, because we all walk through life with different experiences, desires, dreams, and biases, and we pick up many more along our journey. Some people are the friends we need at that moment, to help or encourage us with a particular awareness for something, to assist in solving a problem faced, or help to develop skill you wanted to hone. Others evolve into forever friends, offering love, wisdom, and kindness freely, and become the family we choose.

Both types of friends are valid and cherished forever, I have always struggled with letting my people go, even if it’s clear we have grown apart, because the constancy of the friendship seemed more important than allowing something new to come along. While change is painful, pain is the only way to know that you are growing and changing.

Thanks to my chosen family, I know that I’m stronger now because you saw through, and sometimes fought through, my defense mechanisms. I’m forever grateful for your support, compassion, and kindness.

If you’re someone who hasn’t been an active part of my life over the past few months, know that while I miss you, I wish you well. Maybe we’ll reconnect one day.

Most of all, if you are like me and hate to show others your vulnerability because you’re afraid of being weak, I hope you begin to realize that there are many people who care about you. These people care so much that whatever kinds of metaphorical dragons you are facing, they’d fight them with you. But they can only help you if you let them.

My experience has been to learn to lean into those offering help. I’ve found that when you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you often find new avenues for strength in ways and experiences you couldn’t have guessed. Yes, there will be hurt now and then, but there will also be unexpected joy.

Embrace those around you, and your joy.

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.

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.