“Are You My Mommy?”

Growing up motherless has brought some insight into my life: You don’t need a mom to survive. In fact, in this case, having mine around would have done the oppisite: killed me. When I see those perfect-looking families, all put together, like the people you see in those sample pictures in photo frames, I sigh to myself. Not out of longing, or self-pity. It’s that most of those families don’t know pain. The worst they’ve ever gone through is their Porche getting a scratch on it.
Having a dysfuntional, distant, screwed up family isn’t so bad.
Seeing as my dad never told me who my mom was (he even changed my name from Alexandria Jade Morse to my current one so as to put a halt to questions he knew I would ask, such as “Why don’t I have the same last name as you?”) I was left to figure it out myself. I did some thinking. As a child, I just thought she was dead. Problem solved?
Not quite.
I did some digging around in sixth grade, and found my birth certificate. Along with that came knowledge of the name change (but not of why it was changed) and, now I knew my mom’s name. Sharyl Lynn Morse-Ellis. I also found some court papers, which led me to believe she or my father had done something worthy of court. (Which made me wonder if we were ever on Tru-TV or Judge Judy. Sadly, no.) The puzzle was not quite put together.
December of 2009, not too long ago, I found out. WOOT? Nah. I found out that she is alchoholic, she does drugs, and has multiple mental illnesses. But was it my dad who told me? Pssh, no. It was my brother, Adam.
As a child, I used to watch television and if I saw a beautiful woman up on the screen, I used to wonder if she was my mom. If I saw a lady at Wal-Mart who looked like motherly material (those are decreasing rapidly, might I add) I’d hope she was secretly my mother.
All this just started to come at me so fast. One day I’m in the darkness, and the next, my life is an episode of Jerry Springer.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

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