I was riding high for a couple of weeks. The Atlantic article came out, and in its wake I had doors open for more writing opportunities, podcast interviews, potential collaborations, and more. I was feeling good. Empowered. At peace.
I told my therapist I felt as if the grief over my biological father was in a more manageable place than ever, and she said she could tell from the way I was speaking that something had changed. And then she told me to stop.
“Take a second and feel this moment. Because it won’t always last. But I want you to remember that you were here and that you can come back to this feeling because you have been here before.”
I’ve needed that advice this week; it turns out I am still very much on this rollercoaster of being donor conceived.
It came to a head earlier this week when my bio dad snuck into a dream. I innocently crossed paths with him, and I could not help but cry and confront him. I wanted nothing more than acknowledgment that he hurt me and perhaps an apology. But I felt the familiar hope for reconciliation hiding in the shadows.
Everything about this realistic dream stuck with me this week. And when I went to see The Rolling Stones with my husband the other night, I wondered if it would be the moment our paths crossed. Because I know it will likely happen someday. When he sent his break up email, I responded and asked how he would handle such a future encounter? I quoted “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds. Now I can’t listen to that song.
I don’t think my bio dad was at the concert, but I know his daughter in law and his son that I met were. I don’t fault myself for knowing this because it is something many of us who have been rejected do—sometimes torture ourselves by accessing the slivers of information we can find. We are still literal outsiders looking in.
As I sat at that concert knowing they were in the same arena just one floor below and a handful of rows down, I wondered what I might say if we exited together. Would they ignore me? Would my brother pretend we had never met? Would anything positive come of it?
I find it impossible to pretend these people do not exist, and I don’t know if it will ever stop hurting that they can pretend I don’t. My deliberately planned existence is a threat. And while they can go to a big event and focus on the good time, I perpetually scan faces in the crowd for someone who might be a sibling.
This ride is exhausting.
A Donor Conceived Adult 