As our initial meeting wrapped up, I’d like to say we walked away with a “sense of hope”—or maybe it was just the lightheadedness that comes from realizing your life just turned into a daytime soap opera with a bloated cast list. I’m supposedly part of “something” now, though the jury is still out on whether that “something” is a supportive family unit or just a very confusing group text that I’m now somehow obligated to answer.
Honestly, answering “to” anyone has never really been my strong point. I’d say, “Ask my parents,” but seeing as they’re currently occupying a celestial real estate bracket, getting a straight answer is tough. Though, I’m fairly certain they’re sending signs from their angelic lair—probably in the form of perfectly timed thunderclaps—to confirm that I do NOT listen, nor do I answer to anyone. I’d love to say “those days of defiance are over,” but let’s be real: they never actually existed. I can vividly picture my Dad in the Great Beyond, throwing his head back with that signature Tony eye-roll, exhausted by the mere thought of trying to “get through” to me.
I can’t quite find the right words for the feelings, but “baffled” is a frontrunner; “mindfucked” is the winner. It is a staggering testament to the chaos of the human experience that a couple of adults who couldn’t be bothered with a basic Five-Year Plan—or even a five-MINUTE plan, for that matter—managed to create a situation so tangled it makes a double helix look like a straight line. Thanks to their “vague approach” to the consequences of their actions, my life—and the lives of their other biological experiments—have been tossed into the industrial-sized blender of fate. And here I am, staggering down a twisted walkway into the arms of people who share my chin but not my zip code, my world, or my anything.
And then there’s that “familiarity.” I’ve read those nauseatingly heartwarming articles about “found people” on opposite ends of the globe who discover they are separated at birth family and both sneeze in triples and have an irrational hatred of cilantro. It’s a fascinating psychological phenomenon of genetic continuity until it’s happening to you. Then, you realize you’re essentially looking at a biological mirror and wondering who left the “Copy/Paste” button on—and more importantly, why they stopped at 75%? Where’s the rest of the file?
Now I have to juggle the existential dread of this disorienting new reality:
- The “Members Only” Club: Am I officially “in” their lives now? Is there a mandatory orientation? A laminated handbook? Do I get a loyalty card that gets me a free coffee after ten awkward encounters, or do I just keep scrolling through social media, watching their family get-togethers like I’m viewing a livestream of a planet I don’t have a visa for as I sit in my family room, void of this family.
- GPS Recalculation: Should we even dare to restructure the internal map? Because right now, the GPS is just shouting “Recalculating!” while I drive off a figurative cliff.
- The Loyalty Juggling Act: I’m sure the people who actually, you know, did the work of raising me would be thrilled to hear I’ve found a biological sequel to my own life. Nothing says “Happy Holidays” like introducing a whole new cast of characters forty some odd years into the show. But have no fear, my loyalty lies exactly where it needs to lie—with the people who actually dealt with my nonsense in real-time.
Am I stuck between hope and clinical curiosity? Absolutely. It’s like being a scientist studying your own car crash. It’s a total circus—clowns, high-wire acts, and way too much cotton candy. But hey, it could be worse. I could have found out I was related to a league of supervillains instead of just a group of people who are probably just as confused by my chin as I am by theirs.
In the beginning, there were many celebrated birthdays, holidays, and gatherings. There were also frustrating stories told and retold and then told again, as if I didn’t catch on the first several times. There were strong opinions on who I should and shouldn’t “like” – that’s a red flag for me. But the highest level of disrespect or, shall I say the lowest, was the thrown comment about it being time to “swap your pasta for rice and beans.”
Line drawn.
Curiosity gets me in a headspace where I question most life choices at times. I was curious as to where this part of my past came from. I did manage to visit a couple of cemeteries and I was overcome by emotions at one and overcome with ice running through my veins at another. I sat, passenger princess, during a tour of all the places they had grown up, saw a church that was attended, etc etc. I can tell you this…out of six siblings, ONE took time to actually ask me about me…where I grew up…and the things that gave me MY history and could I take this sibling to see these places. Just one.
That’s my perspective. The bricks begin to stack themselves, one by one. By one. By one.
These days, my coffee maker not only makes an entire pot of Joe but also k cups and nespresso. It’s amazing. We now make “Bougie Coffee” almost on the daily…10 oz medium brew with a double shot intense espresso, some half and half and cocoa powder sprinkle sitting perfectly atop whipped cream. Ok most days, I skip the whipped and cocoa due to my diabetic debacle, but you can just smell how amazing it is through this post, I’m sure!
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