Growing Up Adopted

Honestly, I always felt out of place. I was the cliche' square peg in a round hole. I didn't look like my adoptive parents, and my temperament was so different from theirs. Differences weren't encouraged or welcomed. They were not accepted or embraced. Don't get me wrong, I was financially provided for. I was materially rich in my young eyes. But, something so much deeper was missing. From the outside, my family looked wonderful. Often people admired us. They wanted to be a part of our four person front. Some even aligned themselves as "godchildren" of my adoptive parents. We appeared put together. But the inside of our home was a war zone. A battlefield covered in slain self-esteem, shattered identities, and wounded souls. I was a body with a fragmented soul. I didn't know who I was. The person that I felt true to being and becoming was seen as weird, goofy, and often called "queer". I was broken and lost. No anchor. No roots. Often floating. I wanted to love being in a family. I wanted to know what it was like to be unconditionally loved. I wanted to know where I came from. Who were my biological parents? Where were they, especially when I was hurting. Why had they given me up for adoption? I just didn't understand. My reflection in the mirror was foreign to me. I didn't recognize myself, because I could not see myself in anyone around me. I hated family tree projects. I would construct a family tree using my adoptive family's ancestors. Those ancestors did not belong to me. It was not my history. These were not my roots. It felt like an empty and meaningless task. The project would be completed, but I had huge inward holes. Chapters ripped from the beginning of my story. Missing chunks of knowledge of self. Just endless questions that scrolled on and on...