History Lesson: Part 1

I still remember the first time I opened up about my past, my life growing up.  And I remember the horrified look on my best friend's face as I shared several stories.  Having a pair of sewing scissors thrown at you from five feet away and landing point first in your chest typically gets the best reaction.  I was give or take 9 years old.

This is but one small incident that happened behind the doors of my middle class, suburban, "perfect" home.  Hell, the only thing we were missing was the white picket fence.  But before I dive into my not so perfect childhood, let me go back a bit further.

I was adopted at the ripe old age of two and a half weeks old.  My birth mother was one of five children, four of which were still living at home.  She was 17 years old at the time, 5'4", 125lbs, brown hair, brown eyes, and a high school graduate.  She was described as quiet and artistic.  My birth father was 21, also a high school grad, but 6'4", 180, brown hair and blue eyes.  If I had to guess, I look just like him.  Oh and did I mention that he loved basketball?  He was a truck driver and she worked at a department store.  The two dated for a year and half and had discussed marriage, but  when he moved to a new city, the long distance relationship did not last.  And I was given up for adoption at birth.

I was born "June Marie"...I am thankful that my name was changed to something a lot less southern.  That was a joke.  Although, I do wonder if that was a family name.  In the south at that time, most people with the name June would have been grandparents...it was definitely not from my generation.  Or it could have just been that June was the month in which I was born.  The name June means "young", and the name Marie...and this is relatively funny, means "bitter", so it could actually be solely based on a simply description of herself.  I could speculate forever on this but will never actually know unless I ask my birth mother in person.

I requested and received all this information from Volunteers of America exactly one month after I stopped drinking.  And it still remains just a letter.  In other words, I have not decided what to do with the information.  Just enjoy it as is...a little insight into my past.  Or attempt to make contact with the family I never knew.  I grew up convinced that my adopted parents were my family...done deal.  At a young age, who needs two sets of parents telling you what to do anyway?!  But now that I face my problems and issues, that originated in my childhood, I take a slightly different point of view.  With that said, I also respect the family that gave me up, whatever their reason for doing so, and in no way want to intrude upon or in their lives today. 

So for now, a story with no ending.