Happy 17th Birthday to Me...

Through my teenage years I would wonder about who my birth parents were, especially my birth mom. I tried to fill their voids with fantasies of whoever I wanted them to be. In my mind, my birth mom was gorgeous and kind. She was easy to talk to. She listened and offered loving wisdom. She was incredibly proud of me. She longed for me... On my seventeenth birthday I had what felt like a bit of a meltdown. I was in my room, and I was hysterical. On that very day, I wanted to know did my birth mother think of me. Did she miss me? Did she long for me? Did she even remember that it was my birthday? I sat on my bed, and through the blurriness of my tears, I wrote her a letter. In that letter, I poured out my heart. I asked her everything that I said previously in this post and more. I had an angry pen. There was so much hurt, anger, and somehow a tiny sliver was left for love. When I was finished writing, I flopped over on my bed in an exhausted heap of a sobbing teen. "Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to meeEEEE. Happy Birthday to me."