This year I have been: anxious, ashamed, overly invested, needy, confused, desirous, elated, terrified, panicked, excited, hopeful, and devastated. Embarrassed, too. And over and over again, awkward.
Right now I feel embarrassed over how excited I felt when the donor clicked “like” on a Facebook post. It was when I changed my profile picture, and a bunch of people “liked” it. (Seems to be the case when people change profile pics, even if to an old one.) There is probably some algorithm that makes something with lots of likes be more visible. So that’s probably why he saw it.
My immediate thought/hope/fantasy was that he was overcome with a feeling of “Oh, that is my daughter! That is the person with my eyes and nose!”
I don’t think that’s the case here. It’s been two months (today, exactly, I just noticed!) since I’ve heard from him. I replied to the email he sent mid-October, and wrote another short, light one a month after that. So it’s been a while.
He may not think about me much at all. I try to remember that every member of this situation has their own relationship to it (me included—there are some donor-conceived people that really don’t find it that significant.)
But here’s what’s embarrassing:
My reaction to the donor’s thumbs-up reminded me of a scene from my freshman year of high school. I went to a really big public school after attending a small all-girls school. The other freshmen had people they knew from the feeder middle schools. If I’d come in sophomore year, it’d be clear that I was a “new girl”, but as it was, I was a loner just-turned-fourteen-year-old who knew no one.
I also had braces, fuzzy/frizzy hair, really bad acne all over my cheeks, ugly raised red things that led to lots of scarring. Stretch marks, an undefined round face, but most significantly, I was as self-conscious as any teenager and was caught off guard by how alone I was. The close friendships from my girls’ school had created a sense of safety and even confidence about my possible future popularity. I had been funny, playful, bold, and had these old-fashioned ideas about high school, that there were football games and dances and other exciting things.
But it was the 80s and it was, instead, well, like an 80s movie. I was disoriented and unsteady.
I quickly figured out who the popular kids were and which boys to have crushes on. (Oh, how I wish I’d let myself think bigger!) None of the crushes mattered, though, since I was invisible and/or ugly.
Horrifyingly, I had PE first period, which in fall was SWIMMING. Meaning I’d wake up at 6:00 am, shower, try to calm my fuzzy hair, attempt to hide my acne with whatever crappy, peach-hued foundation existed (they all sucked) and as soon as I got to school I’d change into a swimsuit, exposing my stretch marks and undoing all my morning prep. It was the worst.
But one day—and this is where I finally circle back to the title of this post—the best thing happened.
I was in front of the locker room mirror attempting to make my face appear less offensive than it did, using the products in my nylon bag—that crappy foundation, some kind of powder, and my favorite double-ended chubby eyeliner pencil—Maybelline, Persian Pink and Prussian Blue. The latter deep indigo, the former shimmery shell.
In front of the next sink over “she” [of course I remember her whole name, spelling and all, but let’s call her Becky] was brushing her shiny, smooth blonde hair and putting on some frosty Zinc Pink lipstick, making her beautiful smooth skin look even more tan and perfect.
As I zipped up my bag, she said “Hey, can I borrow your eyeliner? I can’t find mine.” I don’t remember the exact words, but she wanted to use my eyeliner. I knew she normally wore a medium thick creamy black kohl liner top and bottom. Did she know mine was navy? No matter—she wanted it. She used it and gave it back without looking at me.
I was elated.
When my dad got home from work I told him Hey, guess what? Becky, a popular girl, asked to borrow my eyeliner! (I think I actually said it nearly exactly like that.)
Why are you so excited about that, my dad asked. It’s kind of sad.
Or something like that. He wasn’t trying to be mean. I understood that then, and still believe it now. But I came crashing down, embarrassed that I’d been thrilled all day by what was in fact nothing at all.