It’s as if adoptees’ stories are so shameful they are to be kept a secret.
I keep my goals to myself, preventing the assumed disappointment from others if I don’t achieve said dreams.
I held onto the combination of numbers, unsure of my next steps, feeling a bit frozen in making this lifelong dream become a reality.
It has the ability to become a narrator of life; the capability of allowing it to be truly lived instead of just survived.
It is the best friend of anxiety and depression, complementing them with the feeling of fear of intimacy, hesitancy towards accomplishing hopes and dreams.
It’s much easier to see the faults in something, or someone, than to admit I have a barrage of my own.