Discovery Story
It can’t be true. Adopted… adopted… adopted. The mocking voice of the devil chants tunelessly through my head, pounding into my skull, willing me to break. Like a continuous headache that not a single drug can cure, for it is a drug itself. Running from him is not an option for wherever I go he will stalk me a menacing presents in the darkest shadows.
In a sad, ironic sense, it’s comical to think only a few mere hours ago I was your average, normal, happy (in a cute teenage way), girl. Already that innocent sense of security seems a decade away. This is one of those situations that is impossible to grasp unless you are personally experiencing it. Such as a story on the news, where a poor child’s mother is the vulnerable victim of a crazed gunman. An extreme example I realise, still let me explain; you imagine it happening to you, you play it over in your head believing you can understand the loss, and emotions that the grievers are going through. In reality you are a million miles away from being able to begin to comprehend how it feels. In reality you are crying for yourself, preparing yourself for a possible situation, an occurrence in your life, where you will bid use that hatred of the human race. That is why up until now I had no idea how it felt to find out you are not who you think you are. Your identity, your family… your life is just a huge cover-up, a lie.
It has hit me like being woken up from warm, safe sleep by having ice-cold water poured over your head. I supposed if I was to psycho- analyse my self then I would say that at the present time I’m still in a state of shock. Still taking in the contrast of hot and cold and the unexpectancy. Still not quite able to comprehend my, my well what can I call it? My misfortune, that word seems suitable although it doesn’t begin to describe the immensity of my feelings. The misfortune that my real mother didn’t want me, that I was denied, rejected like an old, cracked, useless vase. I wonder if she ever loved me, or did I disgust her, like a speck of dust on her shoe? Does she ever think about me? Wonder what I look like, what kind of person I am? I doubt it; if she did she would have found me, battled against all odds to let me know who I am. I am going to find out whom she is. I am going to meet her, I have to I can’t bare not knowing. I’ve given my “mum” an ultimatum, either she tells me who my real mother is, or I leave, get up and go. Melodramatic I realise but I’m not sure if I am in an entirely sane state of mind at the moment. I doubt I’d be able to leave but I must find out the truth, I need to know.