- 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
Uh, Never Mind
Three years ago. My ex-swishy gay hairstylist, Wayne, casually mentioned that he’d been born to an Indian mother overseas and adopted—or, more accurately, “bought,” as he acknowledged it--as an infant by American parents. He also had several siblings who’d also been adopted. My ears pricked up like a Jack Russell’s. A kindred spirit! Practically wagging my tail, I recognized my chance for some elusive instant adoptee bonding, something I’d only read about in Sherrie Eldridge’s Twenty Things Adopted People Need to Know. A rush of adrenaline swept over me, and I broke into a light sweat as I considered my options.
What to do? Go for the big reveal and blurt out something stupid? I now regret squandering the several past opportunities I’ve had to reach out to a fellow adoptee and didn’t want to screw up my chance now. Predictably, the comforting old shame response took charge, and I clammed up and quietly listened to Wayne’s story. I quickly decided to save my confession for my next hair appointment instead; that way, I’d have 6 to 8 luxurious weeks to plan and rework my Oscar-worthy “coming out” speech properly, as well as acknowledge my own feelings on the subject in the process.
I excitedly told Jeremy about the happy coincidence, and he, too, was relieved that I’d finally be able to connect with someone else on such an intensely personal level and maybe even get some therapeutic benefit out of it.
Seven weeks passed, and I made my next highlighting appointment with giddy, gut-churning anticipation. The big day arrived, and I sat rigid, heart pounding, listening but not listening, as Wayne chatted on about something; to my racing mind, he sounded like an adult in Charlie Brown’s world: WAH-WAH-WAH. I waited for just the right moment to drop my poignant bomb. This is probably how guys feel when they’re about to pop the question, I thought.
I waited for a pause in Wayne’s train of thought. Logical conversational flow be damned! Three. Two. One.
Me: So…you were saying that you were adopted. So was I.
Him: Oh, really?
Me: Yeah. I kinda wanted to mention it to you last time, but I’m just not used to talking about it. It’s something I’ve always been ashamed of, actually.
Him: Really? I’m actually pretty OK with it. I love my parents, and I understand that my birth parents’ situation was pretty much unworkable and that they couldn’t keep me. I totally understand why they did what they did.
Me: Oh. Well, um, that’s cool.
Total boner wilt. Wah-wah. Invalidated again. That was the first and last time I exposed the most vulnerable part of myself to another adoptee. In spite of that, I still long to connect with someone else who understands my deepest shame and sadness, which is reported to be a wonderful thing. I’ll just keep trying until I find one.
I later mentioned this encounter to Mark, asking why some adoptees seem totally cool with their adoptedness, and others, like me, are openly hostile. Having worked with a number of adoptees in his practice, he says that it’s virtually impossible for any of us to emerge truly unscathed from the trauma we’ve suffered. In fact, many adoptees present much like me—tooling along, comfortably in denial about their abandonment and shame, until some inevitable emotional crisis—a breakup, infidelity, failure, even a potentially good relationship--ignites the fuse that brings the world crashing down. It’s not a matter of if, he says, but when. Facing and embracing our pain is the only safe route out.
What to do? Go for the big reveal and blurt out something stupid? I now regret squandering the several past opportunities I’ve had to reach out to a fellow adoptee and didn’t want to screw up my chance now. Predictably, the comforting old shame response took charge, and I clammed up and quietly listened to Wayne’s story. I quickly decided to save my confession for my next hair appointment instead; that way, I’d have 6 to 8 luxurious weeks to plan and rework my Oscar-worthy “coming out” speech properly, as well as acknowledge my own feelings on the subject in the process.
I excitedly told Jeremy about the happy coincidence, and he, too, was relieved that I’d finally be able to connect with someone else on such an intensely personal level and maybe even get some therapeutic benefit out of it.
Seven weeks passed, and I made my next highlighting appointment with giddy, gut-churning anticipation. The big day arrived, and I sat rigid, heart pounding, listening but not listening, as Wayne chatted on about something; to my racing mind, he sounded like an adult in Charlie Brown’s world: WAH-WAH-WAH. I waited for just the right moment to drop my poignant bomb. This is probably how guys feel when they’re about to pop the question, I thought.
I waited for a pause in Wayne’s train of thought. Logical conversational flow be damned! Three. Two. One.
Me: So…you were saying that you were adopted. So was I.
Him: Oh, really?
Me: Yeah. I kinda wanted to mention it to you last time, but I’m just not used to talking about it. It’s something I’ve always been ashamed of, actually.
Him: Really? I’m actually pretty OK with it. I love my parents, and I understand that my birth parents’ situation was pretty much unworkable and that they couldn’t keep me. I totally understand why they did what they did.
Me: Oh. Well, um, that’s cool.
Total boner wilt. Wah-wah. Invalidated again. That was the first and last time I exposed the most vulnerable part of myself to another adoptee. In spite of that, I still long to connect with someone else who understands my deepest shame and sadness, which is reported to be a wonderful thing. I’ll just keep trying until I find one.
I later mentioned this encounter to Mark, asking why some adoptees seem totally cool with their adoptedness, and others, like me, are openly hostile. Having worked with a number of adoptees in his practice, he says that it’s virtually impossible for any of us to emerge truly unscathed from the trauma we’ve suffered. In fact, many adoptees present much like me—tooling along, comfortably in denial about their abandonment and shame, until some inevitable emotional crisis—a breakup, infidelity, failure, even a potentially good relationship--ignites the fuse that brings the world crashing down. It’s not a matter of if, he says, but when. Facing and embracing our pain is the only safe route out.