Dear Mom, I'm Adopted.

Dear mom, I’m adopted.

I was never yours. At least not truly. Although you were the one that bore me into this world we’re in, I departed from you long ago. Many days and many nights I gazed into the nothingness that has plagued every mirror I’ve encountered wondering why I was here. Forced to live out years I didn’t ask for. With you and without you all at the same time.

I imagine, in a desperate attempt to survive, my mind had brought me to a place of refuge within the mothers I found around me. Whether that be by the gentle smiles of the few teachers I had that considered my wellbeing, the kind motherly souls I encountered sensing the young child within, or the mothers on the screens that seemed to engulf me.

The mothers taught me what it was like to be considered. To be looked at as someone, not something. They taught me to consider myself. Although the concept was foreign in those moments, I learned what belonged in my soul through it.

I taught myself, however, not to hold on too tightly to good things. Their emotional embrace revealed to me the pain that I had grown so accustomed to, sustaining me while amplifying the hurt through its discovery once it was away. Dwelling in the light of their love would only make the shadows darker. I had nothing left but the memory of their warmth.

The balancing of duel-selves was its own challenge. I emulated the care I had observed to raise my wounded version. When you were finished with me, Harriette Winslow stepped away from Steve and Carl to pick me up from the tear-covered floor. Amy Matthews wiped the dirt from my face when Cory and Eric weren’t in need of her. Meanwhile, Bobby Generic’s mother Martha comforted me with an accent I’ve only heard from her and Marge Gunderson. Occasional visits from Ferris and Chris Parker teased me with stories of where we would go when we all could escape, but Clair and Vivian were there to shoo them away so I could rest.

I confess this to you, not to bring you pain or regret, but to let you know that I am ok. Your higher self should be at ease to know that I was held so carefully by others. As opposed to spite, I hope these words are a balm to your soul knowing that any emotional combat projected onto me was not as detrimental as it could have been.

These mothers are not appreciated instead of you. They are appreciated alongside you. This is simply, or perhaps not so simply, love adjacent.

Unsure of what to do exactly with the emotions I experienced during my youth, I quote often kept them to myself. The best I knew how. I regularly felt embarrassed that I still wanted to care for you like the other mothers. My love for you made me feel weak. Like someone unworthy of true care from a parent, that was too timid to have the audacity to banish anyone from their broken heart. Like I should have been grateful you spent the time to diminish me because some people didn’t even have that.

Love should never do this to a being. However, that lesson was learned at a later time. As the years went on, I had the opportunity to realize the mothers on the screens resembled a few women I would meet on my journey. When I was strong enough, I went and got my pieces back. I’m whole. At least, more than before. More than I would have been pursuing the fearful strength of unforgiveness.

So, mother of mine, please know that I love you. I recognize now what took place and choose to define it instead of it defining me. I hope you come to thank the mothers in my life the same way I can.

Sincerely, your son Sherman.