I’ve not been very inspiring these days. I know that. Still, I write.
I have been thinking about those that I cut out of my life, with blood and anger and what I needed to grow.
I think about the people who raised me, on the anniversary of my first meeting with my biological – BIRTH mother.
They tried. I can’t imagine how much they spent trying to make me like them, hoping O would be – someone who followed what thay thought god is, someone who literally cheered the insane diatribes of Rush Limbaugh – and someone they could control.
Hells – I can hardly control myself. They didn’t have a chance – and the figured it out far too late.
18 months in hospice and hospital visiting my sister who lived a few miles away.
THey never visited.
It may be my fault though – early in the hospice I got a call from my sister (adopted as well – the golden child) – and she put my mom on the phone. I’m dying, and the first question she asks is “Do you haave a job?”
I still can’t figure it out. Was that her safe place? Was that REALLY what she wanted to ask?
Still, I miss them. They tried. They failed beautifully. I am me, and they will never know how much that means.
there are SO many fucking reasons I need to write this book – but this is the first time I’ve told you of this one.
I want tthem to know what they have lost in their ignorance, their bigotry, thit attempt to shut me down.
I have only grown stronger.
But damn, I do moss them – sometimes.