I wasn’t going to dive headfirst into telling this part of my story without having more substance, but here I am. In my last post, I mentioned that I hadn’t met my biological father and that raised many questions among readership aka close friends.
I have always struggled to tell my story, because haters (#fuelme) will often believe it is cry for attention. In fact, it partly is. I have gone so many years burying so many things I want to say aloud, in fear of negative attention. But, like all things in life, there is light and there is dark. Everyone needs validation for their stories — proof that their hardships are real and understood. Luckily for me, the light vastly outweighs the dark.
My biological father remained faceless for many years. Literally, his head was cut out in all pictures. His name was never spoken in our household. Basically, he was He Shall Not Be Named.
I finally learned his full name (which was incidentally Voldemort [just kidding]) a few years ago. I plugged it into the omniscient Google and found his ludicrously extensive curriculum vitae. It was then I understood how and why I was naturally such a tryhard.
Tomorrow, I resume my education at a university at which he is a professor.
Wish me luck! (Though, I have the strength of America by my side; happy fourth of July to those across the Pacific pond.)