Upon finding out the identity of my biological parents

Readers forgive me, I’ve not been updating this at all. I really need to go through and update everything, but in the meantime, something strange and wonderful and terrifying and world-view shattering has occurred. From 23 and me, a cousin by marriage contacted me. I am adopted. This woman was also adopted. This woman had been helping her cousin with finding relatives, and found me, and wanted to know how I fit in.

I have been asking myself this question my entire life. How do I fit in? I know that my parents adopted me, not being able to have any children of their own (though later, they did have my siblings). And I know I am unlike my family in ways, but like them in ways, but the ways in which I diverge are strange. I sing, I write, I make art, I am relentlessly optimistic, I am passionately driven to create, I have anxieties, I have autoimmune disorders – many of these things mysterious.

Three days after contacting me, this search angel had found my biological family. It looks like my mother, who was 14 when she had me, and my father, who was 17/18 when I was born, may have gotten married at 20 and 24. It looks like I have three full siblings. They look like me. They are musicians, artists, creators. Questions of nature vs. nurture, questions of who am I really, what am I really, I just. I can’t quite describe the thoughts in my head except that they are swirling and they are endless. I want to know these people. I want to know how we could be alike, how we are different, how their world views might inform mine – what lives in the bones, beneath what we have known all our lives?

But so many questions, and first and foremost – would they like me? Would they want to know me? Giving up a child must be insanely difficult, even at such a young age – what if I bring more pain than joy?  I harbor no ill-will for having been adopted. I would have done the same thing. I am, in fact, grateful for my life.

I slept very strangely, very little last night. I was awake every hour with dreams. In one, my daughters needed me – and sure enough, 3 AM texts from my 15 year old who is in Switzerland with Girl Scouts. They’re fine there, but I knew they wanted the reassurance that I would always be there.

Each time I woke:

I dreamed that I had no mouth, and saw my biological mother and father walking down the street and I couldn’t shout out to say hey, hello, here I am.

I dreamed that any and all words I write fall into a void like teeth from babies mouths.

I dreamed I got a joyous response to my message.

I dreamed that my biological mother and father were Klingons, and the Ferengi assassinated my father just as he was about to greet me.

I dreamed my mom told stories to my biological mother of what a strange, at times unmanageable, child I was, and that my biological mother got angry.

I dreamed I got a firm denial and a “Never talk to me again.”

I dreamed my body was vast, an ocean that birthed not only my own children, but all my ancestors, and they were deer, they were spotted owls, they had names but I couldn’t speak their names.

I dreamed I was singing in a Beatles cover band.

I dreamed I was teetering on the edge of a ridgepole, walking, and I was terrified I would put a foot down in the wrong place, terrified I would tumble, but which side of the roof would I tumble off of?

I dreamed there was safety in numbers.

I dreamed there were no numbers.

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