Long before I was conceived my story began. While I don't know all of the pieces from that frame of time, I do know that a pretty red-haired teenage girl from a big, Catholic family in north St. Louis county met a tall, good-looking guy from the south side and things happened. And from that brief union, I was created.
The chaotic wildness surrounding that union is part of my story too. One thing the 70's was not was boring. People were protesting the Vietnam War and the shooting at Kent State occurred. The Beatles broke up. Bobby Orr was a hockey hero. Gay rights soared to the forefront of the news when activists organized in every state across the country. Disney World opened, punk music hit the scene, and I was born.
When I was three days old, I was turned over to a foster family who cared for me until my adoption began six weeks later. My mom and dad took me home, introduced me to the rest of the family and my life really began. My hardworking father owned a grocery store where he was a butcher while my mom stayed home, tending to the household, serving dinner promptly at 5PM every night. At the age of four, I was blessed with a little sister. Her birthday was the day after mine. I didn't care. I had my own room but I wanted to sleep with the baby so I did.
I went to private Catholic schools. By second grade my indoctrination into the sporting world began with basketball, followed by volleyball and then, finally, softball. I played all three sports through my sophomore year in high school. Then I carried my love for volleyball into college. I also played basketball in college but I joined mostly for the camaraderie of the team and because I thought the coach was hot.
I didn't kiss a boy until I was 17 and I wanted to die when I finally did. It was awful and I was certain he was trying to suffocate me. I liked boys. I liked looking at them. They were just so weird. And they scared me. I wasn't really sure how all of that worked. Needless to say, I held onto my virginity until I was well into college.
In my early college days, I discovered a bit more about my birth parents' backgrounds through a letter left at the adoption agency by my birth mom, Denice. She was so incredibly attentive. For ten years after my adoption, she returned to the agency to update my medical records. Most adopted kids don't have that. I learned that I was the only child to whom she ever gave birth. She was not in a relationship with my birth father. He was married to someone else and already had two other children. I was one of a kind, apparently.
Later on, in my 30s, I met her: my birth mom. She wanted more from me than I could offer. So our contact was short-lived. But during that time, she gave me my birth father's name and I began the quest to find him. Ten years later, I met my oldest sister, followed my a myriad of family members.
There are many things about my story that are influenced by my birth and many others influenced by my upbringing. Some are difficult for me to talk about but for the most part, I have always loved my story. I love the ridiculousness of it the most because it makes sense that someone like me, just being who I am today, and who was born in the 70s doesn't have a boring history. My history is rich and bizarre and riddled with bad choices and tough decisions and sheer lunacy.
But it is my story and I have learned to love the really awful stuff almost as much as I love the parts that are easy to love. A big part of finding freedom is learning to love your story. I love mine and because of that, I am free.
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