I am writing this because I needed to tell my story somewhere. A personal confessional, in the hopes that perhaps someone somewhere will read it, and laugh and cry and maybe someone will see it and feel a little bit more like they aren't the only one with a messy past that sits under an uncertain future.
I was born 25 years, 7 months, 29 days and 4 hours ago in Anchorage, Alaska. My mother, barely 19 years young, gave birth to a 7 pound 7 ounce baby girl. She had run away from everything--my father, her family and a possibility for a good life for both of us--to live with her drug dealing 40-something year old boyfriend. She told me, many years later that she had also been dealing drugs while she was pregnant with me, and was offered five-thousand dollars to name me Kilo at one point. Obviously she didn't, though I joke that she really should have taken the money and done it. Instead, she decided to give me the last name of her drug dealing boyfriend, for no money. That is how my life started, with some stranger's name as mine, testing positive for cocaine and heroine. I could write it off as being in the 80's, and that was just part of the culture of the decade, but you really can't excuse anything like that. I could also pretend that I am not still angry about it, that I have forgiven her, and that she has seen the error of her ways, but I can't tell you that. This is not a happy story, and it has no happy ending...yet. I will say that after many years, I reconnected with family and found out that my aunt in-law took care of me the first seven months of my life, and this gave me a fighting chance.
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