It’s as if adoptees’ stories are so shameful they are to be kept a secret.
It has the ability to become a narrator of life; the capability of allowing it to be truly lived instead of just survived.
If I sit with this for too long, I get angry. It feels dehumanizing. Am I just a commodity for someone’s desires?
But I’m a believer in the impossible, and know that if we set our hearts and minds to it, we can overcome anything.
I easily fell into that way of thinking, equating my lack of interest in boys to thinking I wasn’t ready for them; I was too immature or had other interests that required my attention. I believed I must just be a late bloomer.
I would rather be given empowerment than be given condolences. I would rather be treated as a human being with a story than as a psychology project.