Wednesday, February 16, 2011
We woke this morning to the first rays of sunshine to creep through the window and touch our skin, in months.  It was a beautiful morning and today has been an amazing day.


My biological father’s name is Ed.  I met Ed once in my life when I was 13-years-old.  I hated the man with a passion.  He had beaten my mother and I knew it.  She never complained or bitched about it.  She answered questions honestly, when asked, is all.  She also arranged that meeting for me, so very long ago, at my request.  And when I met Ed, I met his partner Valerie (who I remember flinching when Ed moved too fast near her - a sign I recognized even then, that his fists were more than likely comfortable on her as well), and their son Adam, my 7-month-old (at the time) brother.

I remember vividly Ed’s lame attempts at buying my love and respect; taking me to the mall offering to buy me anything I wanted, trying to manipulate me while in the car on the way there into telling him I loved him – when I really did not; could not love this stranger.  I also remember his cheap attempts to be an instant-father, trying to give me shit for being on birth control and having a steady boyfriend, trying to tell me drinking was alright but I shouldn’t be smoking.  But most prominent of all memories, I remember Ed asking me if I still suffered asthma.  There’s a thing about that…

The thing is, I have never suffered asthma; what I suffered was a direct result of Ed bending my eight-month-pregnant mother backwards over a bathtub and smashing her head 6 (or so) times against the side.  When I was an infant and even a toddler, just bumping my head resulted in hospital visits because I would stop breathing.  That’s not asthma asshole – and no matter how much you may wish your version were the truth, we both know better.

But there are bigger and better parts to this story… Since I joined Facebook, I’ve randomly messaged people with the first name Adam and the last name as my own asking them their father’s name.  They’ve always replied with, ‘Sorry, my father’s name is Peter’, or ‘My dad is Bob’.  Until today.  Today, Adam replied with, ‘Yes, that is me.’

I thought my heart would fall right out of my chest.  There simply are no words to describe that feeling.  And there’s no way I can explain the mixture of tears and sheer happiness I type through now.

With the discovery of Adam came Brandy, whom I vaguely remember Ed mentioning as my younger sister and presumably a few other siblings I’ve never heard of or had the pleasure of knowing.

Brandy upon introduction, said what I initially feared to say, “Ed is no father of mine.  He was merely a sperm donor.”  I’m so very glad I’m not alone in those thoughts and feelings.

Yesterday, I went to bed knowing that the only blood relative I had left was my brother Jesse.  I went to bed with scraps of my father, a few distant photos, random documents, including a hand written contract Ed signed in 1981, stating he’d pay my mother $50 every month in child support – he never adhered to (and I've often contemplated suing him with, for the sake of expressing the true hatred I have for him).  $50 every month for 30 years equates to a fair amount of money as well...  near 18 grand, actually.  I could pay off my car with that. But I digress...

Today, my family at least tripled in size – even if they do all seem to be in Ontario.  They exist.  Today, I have the 1st bit of good I’ve ever known of Ed – siblings.  And from today forward, they will all be a part of my life.  We have a long journey of getting to know each other.  We have stories to share and to hear.  If it weren’t so damn late now I’d be making phone calls this very minute.

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No matter where I am, I'm lost and learning to like it. I'm a living contradiction, and the best lies I tell are the ones I tell myself.
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