Before I had my OBC I had dreams, hopes. A rich and pretty fantasy where I was searched for, wanted,loved.
Where my children were met with excitement, acceptance and love.
An Oprah reunion moment with all the people who looked like me.
We'd hug, cry and be one big happy family. I would go to family reunions and truly really be a part of a family. MY family.
I would learn about my heritage, where I came from and be able to have a REAL family tree.
And I would feel truly whole for the 1st time in my life.
Silly silly girl.
Crash land into the "After" OBC life where things are dark and gloomy.
And it makes me wonder if not knowing is better. If hope is better than abject rejection.
I haven't been the same person since that one small piece of paper came in the mail. The thrill of that piece of paper has long since worn off. The excitement and wonder, the hope and fantasy ripped to shreds.
So who am I now?
Still unwanted, parts still unknown with no clearer picture of who I am that I had weeks ago. Where does the anger and sorrow go? Who do I direct it to? Does it eat away at me for the rest of my life?
Do I remain in sadness, the colors slowly seeping from my world?
Is this my punishment for demanding the truth?
I still look at that piece of paper every day, looking for what I do not know.
I hold out the tiniest sliver of hope that she will come around.
That she will want to know me. Will let loose of the secrets that only she knows the answers to.
Until then I am at her mercy.