I’ve known I was adopted for as long as I can remember.  My parents told me that being adopted meant I was extra special because they chose me.  

I didn’t come from my mom’s tummy like the other kids.  My parents actually picked me out and paid for me so they could bring me home to live with them.  In my little kid brain, I imagined they went to a place that had all of the babies. They took one look at me and said, “We want that one!  She’s perfect!”

I bought into this story hook, line and sinker.  Given the chance, I would tell anyone and everyone that I was adopted—no biggie.  I practically shouted it from the rooftops.  I thought it was a badge of honor to be worn proudly because, after all, I was the chosen one.  (Cue the chorus of angels.)

I was in second grade when the other kids started trying to figure out what it meant that I was adopted.  How did it make me different than them?  Of course, they started to make fun of me saying my parents weren’t my “real” parents and whatever else dumb shit they could come up with to taunt me.  

At that point, I decided to set them straight.  I would very calmly, and confidently, let them know that I was chosen by my parents.  I knew with certainty that they wanted me because they paid money to get me.  I would then ask the little clowns if they were absolutely sure their parents wanted them?  Maybe they were a mistake.  I didn’t say surprise, I said, mistake.  Looking back, I can see that was a pretty cruel thing to say to a 7-year-old, but my only defense was regurgitating the fanciful story told and re-told to me.

I was a teeny tiny little thing, very shy and quiet but my anger was simmering just below the surface.  I’m sure deep down I was just as confused as my classmates. When they said my mom and dad weren’t my real parents, it touched the place of pain I was taught to ignore. What else would my reaction be but Iashing out with the most hurtful thing I could think of at the time.

When I got a little older, my parents told me part two of my adoption story.  They said that my birth mother was in high school so she would not have been able to be a good mother to me.  And, because she loved me very much, she decided to give me away so that I could have a better life.

How in the hell was my inner child supposed to process this information?  For my sanity’s sake, I had to believe the story about my birth mother.  I mean, come on, what was the alternative?  That she hated me and couldn’t wait to get rid of me?   Even though I tried to keep that thought at bay it would still rear its ugly head when I least expected it.  This thought would terrify me and I would urgently reach for the “she loved me too much to keep me” story.

As I sit here, I am questioning this whole idea of being told I was chosen.  What about the person that un-chose me?  I was unchosen first.  

So, I get it, let’s stick with the positive word “chosen” and never mention the negative word “unchosen”.  We’ll just keep moving along this track not noticing that teeny tiny little angry Sherry is fully aware that her first experience with life was rejection.

Chosen, chosen, chosen, chosen!  Angry Sherry would like to point out that this is some Grade-A bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!  Where is she supposed to go with this anger?  She could just say fuck it and sink into a pit of despair, or she could muster up the energy to give life her best shot.  

Obviously, I mustered up the energy to live and proceeded accordingly:  I closed up my heart, stifled the anger, ignored the sadness and held the pain.  I pretended I was okay, for everyone’s sake, all the while knowing deep in my soul that I am the unchosen one.