The mirror is a monster, it’s my worst enemy; I see questions instead of answers. I don’t see a whole person; I see a fragmented piece of art that is yet to be signed. I see a stranger who is strangely familiar.
I wrote this as a part of a piece for a non-fiction writing class I took last year. I really like it and I think it captures a part of what I feel about myself and my identity.
After I was told about my conception I became a different person. There was a line drawn in the sand; the me before I was told and the me after. On the outside and to others I am sure I seemed the same. I subconciously burried this information and chose not to deal with it until I was older, at least until I had finished school. I know this is something I did not verbalise or really think about doing, but looking back I know this is what I did, perhaps as a coping mechanism of sorts.
I would ask so many questions, usually when I was laying in my bed at night. Some of these questions still haunt me today.
What does he look like?
Why did he donate his sperm?
Is he still married?
Does he have other children?
Why did he give me away? And why couldn't I be the sperm that stayed with him?
What are his interests? Does he like music as much as I do? Does he sing like me?
Where does he live?
What has he done with his life?
What are his family like?
Would they accept me into their family? My family?
Does anyone else besides he and his wife know that he donated sperm?
Are my grandparents (his parents) still alive?
What nationality is he? Was he born here or overseas?
What did he study at university? Is he as passionate a person as I?
Is he still alive???
Does he still live in Victoria or Australia?
Does he think about me? Does he think about what might have happened as a result of his donations?
What does he do for a living?
Does he have a sarcastic sense of humour like me?
Is he scared that I want money from him?
Does he even care that I exist?
Has he seen me in the newspapers, in the magazine article, on the news or on tv at all???
Has anyone of his family recognised me and ignored the fact that I may be his?
Why doesn't he want to know me?!
Is he scared? I am scared too
Will I ever know him.....or myself?
I hope he knows that I love him, no matter what.
All of that going through my mind for years and to this day. Now the questions sit with me on a deeper level and I don't get as sad to think about this, however the relevance of these questions have not faded one bit. There are more questions, but if I were to list them all I fear I might just bore you all. And you get the jist anyway.
When I wasn't able to confront my feelings properly, throughout those few years I would connect with lyrics and songs and stories. They helped me to cope. One song in particular, called "Sinner" by Neil Finn has stuck with me since. If you havne't heard the song before, please do so, it is truly beautiful. (Inspired by "Whosedaughter"'s blog)
Sing it everyone got my nose got my blood
Conscience plays upon me now
Safe until my luck runs out
Cukoos call, pendulum swings
I thought you knew everything
Lift my hands make the cross
Sinner I have never learned
Beginner I cannot return
Forever I must walk this earth
Like some forgotten soldier
Those things I should keep to myself
But I feel somehow strangely compelled
Under moonlight I stood wild and naked
Felt no shame just my spirit awakened
Sinner got my eyes got my face
Fireball drop from the sky
All my dreams have come to pass
Where's my faith is it lost
Can't see it till you cast it off
Sinner there is no such thing
Beginner I have learned to sing
Forever I must walk this earth
Like some forgotten soldier
Today I am still disconnected
To the face that I saw in the clouds
And the closest I get to contentment
Is when all of the barriers come down
4 comments:
You write beautifully, truthfully and courageously and your story breaks my heart.
As an adoptee, I am struck, but not at all surprised, by how our experiences mirror each other. I have said, without any degree of first hand knowledge, that donor insimination is the intentional creation of all the things you struggle with. For that reason, I see it as a cruelty.
I relate to what you say for another reason - my own seemingly endless yearning for my own father. If you're compelled to visit my little corner of the web, there is a piece titled 'Ghosts of My Fathers' I think you'll probably relate to.
If you don't mind, I'd like to link you. I'll be back. And, thank you, for the a glimpse into your experience.
Rhonda, Thank you so much.
I read that post you mentioned.. so moving.
Linked you already :)
Thank you also.. I find so much comfort in stories such as yours, although at the same time i wish we didn't have to connect like this. It's bitter/sweet, don't you think?
xo
I find so much comfort in stories such as yours, although at the same time i wish we didn't have to connect like this. It's bitter/sweet, don't you think?
It is definitely a club I wish I, and others like me, didn't belong to. Still, I'm glad for the company.
I can relate Rel. And Rhonda I'm glad for the company too.
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