Growing up, I could never understand why other kids would ask me, "What is it like to have a mommy and daddy that aren't really yours?" It boggled my mind. What the hell is that supposed to mean? "Not REALLY mine?" I mean, I could ask you the same question. "What is like to have a mother and father that share the same DNA as you? HUH, HUH, HUH!?!?!?" Family is family, and it doesn't require the same blood, bone and flesh. My mother wiped my baby butt just like yours did. My dad let me fall asleep on his chest just like yours did. As for my brother, he protected me just like yours did, if not twenty times better! Now that I look back on it, most of the people who questioned me were kids my own age. I have come to realize that they were simply curious about what it was like to be adopted. But at the time it really messed with my head. I was adopted when I was 8 weeks old, so I grew up with a family that I called "my own." It was completely normal to me. So when I had kids, some of them being my best friends, constantly questioning my lifestyle, it really made me think that something was truly wrong. I had to find a way to start numbing the pain of feeling like a total outcast so I starting smoking pot when I was 15 years old. I would tuck myself away in my room, black wallpaper and all, turn on some Type O Negative (or something equally depressing) and smoke myself into oblivion. I found out real quick that being stoned all the time made the thoughts just disappear. And hey, that worked for me! However, as time went by I started to fall into a deep, black hole. I was sad all the time, I felt like I was worthless, and all I wanted to do was curl up into the fetal position and cry day in and day out. My parents began to notice a very negative change in my behavior. I was failing in school, hanging out with the "bad" kids, and losing my temper at the drop of a hat. There was even a time when I felt so dead inside that I would cut my arms open just to feel something, anything, that meant my heart was actually beating. After snapping one too many times, my mom and dad finally took me to a doctor to find out what was wrong with me. It turns out I have depression. I think we were all relieved that it was nothing more than a chemical imbalance in my brain, and I wasn't bat shit crazy. I was put on a regular dose of Zoloft and was back on track, as far as my emotions were concerned. But that didn't keep the thoughts of who and where I came from away. It was something that I was going to have to deal with for just a bit longer. Well, 3 or 4 more years, to be exact.
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