- A Question of Trust
- Intro: The Birth of a Blog
- You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance: Part I
- Bad Romance, Part II: The Couch
- Bastard Package #1
- Hallelujah
- Born This Way
- Baby Girl X
- Another Victim of Love
- True Life
- The Girls Who Went Away
- Love and Other Drugs
- 11 Things Adoptees Love to Hear
- Uh, Never Mind
- Adoptee Kid Lit
- Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
- MYOFB
- Awkwardness
- Baby Steps
- Faith, Hope, and Catholic Charities
- Special Delivery
- Green-eyed Monster
- !@#$
- Pandora
- Fantasyland
- Adoptees You May Have Heard Of
- Big MAC Attack
- Material Girl
- VISA and Mastercard Accepted
- Don't Hold Your Breath
- Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
- A Question of Trust
- Adoption, Hollywood Style
- All in the Family
A Question of Trust
I’ve dated a big handful of men in my life. As you probably know, bonding with someone--romantically or otherwise—demands getting to know them intimately, like it or not. Both parties must make themselves vulnerable to each other on an emotional level. If they can’t do that, they’ll never move past formalities and really understand each other. It’ll just never work. Before that can happen, though, a foundation of mutual trust must be laid. It’s incredibly risky business, offering ourselves up, emotionally naked, to a relative stranger for judgment. Shedding our physical clothing is easy by comparison. If we get a positive response, we know it’s safe to proceed. Sadly, some people live their entire lives never knowing the relief and joy of that true intimacy.
I allowed myself to grow emotionally close to only a couple of guys, Jeremy included. With certain ones, I sensed almost instantly that they were not worthy keepers of my darkest secret. At no other time did I reach that point of no return at which I could safely expose my most shameful self to a man. It was regrettable at the time, but in the long run, it was a sign that those guys weren’t safe bets for me anyway. And so The Bomb became my acid test of relationship potential and trustworthiness in a mate.
When I met Jeremy my sophomore year at Purdue, we hit it off immediately and quickly became enmeshed. I found him extremely low-key, comfortable, and safe (traits that other women find irresistible in him even now, to my chagrin), and in nearly no time at all, I’d dropped The Bomb. I’m not sure why it was so dramatic to me—it’s not like I expected it alone to scare him away. I guess I’d just expected to be judged and deemed unworthy of pursuit and commitment, since my birthparents couldn’t commit to me, either. He shrugged off my revelation—not with uninterest but with genuine uncertainty as to why I thought it would make me less attractive to him. Right then, I knew he was a keeper.
Now, of course, I can recognize this paranoia for what it was--fear of rejection and abandonment. To most nonadoptees, it’s part and parcel of the love dance; we get dumped, we mourn, we rebait our hooks and cast again and again until we’re successful. But to an adoptee, the fear of rejection is much more than this. It’s visceral and violent, having been tattooed on our neurologic memory since birth. It affects every part of our lives profoundly, regardless of how well-adjusted we appear to be. It hides like a ninja in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to reveal itself and strike. And even when we know exactly where it is, it beats the unholy living shit out of us again and again.
Someday, when the boys start calling, I know I’ll be telling my daughters that they have to learn to love and accept themselves before anyone else earns the privilege. I should know--it’s a lesson I’m still struggling to learn for myself.
I allowed myself to grow emotionally close to only a couple of guys, Jeremy included. With certain ones, I sensed almost instantly that they were not worthy keepers of my darkest secret. At no other time did I reach that point of no return at which I could safely expose my most shameful self to a man. It was regrettable at the time, but in the long run, it was a sign that those guys weren’t safe bets for me anyway. And so The Bomb became my acid test of relationship potential and trustworthiness in a mate.
When I met Jeremy my sophomore year at Purdue, we hit it off immediately and quickly became enmeshed. I found him extremely low-key, comfortable, and safe (traits that other women find irresistible in him even now, to my chagrin), and in nearly no time at all, I’d dropped The Bomb. I’m not sure why it was so dramatic to me—it’s not like I expected it alone to scare him away. I guess I’d just expected to be judged and deemed unworthy of pursuit and commitment, since my birthparents couldn’t commit to me, either. He shrugged off my revelation—not with uninterest but with genuine uncertainty as to why I thought it would make me less attractive to him. Right then, I knew he was a keeper.
Now, of course, I can recognize this paranoia for what it was--fear of rejection and abandonment. To most nonadoptees, it’s part and parcel of the love dance; we get dumped, we mourn, we rebait our hooks and cast again and again until we’re successful. But to an adoptee, the fear of rejection is much more than this. It’s visceral and violent, having been tattooed on our neurologic memory since birth. It affects every part of our lives profoundly, regardless of how well-adjusted we appear to be. It hides like a ninja in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to reveal itself and strike. And even when we know exactly where it is, it beats the unholy living shit out of us again and again.
Someday, when the boys start calling, I know I’ll be telling my daughters that they have to learn to love and accept themselves before anyone else earns the privilege. I should know--it’s a lesson I’m still struggling to learn for myself.