I don’t want my last name. It doesn’t fit me, nor does the family in which I was born into.
I got the name from my social father. He rather did not want to have me, yet agreed in an attempt to create a child that would most likely match the real deal: a biological child of his own.
Because you see, my father was infertile. Sperm was retrieved from another man who showed resemblances with him so that a perfect picture could be achieved. My parents were told that in time any awkwardness would fade away.
But the truth is, it never did. Things just didn’t add up, it never felt normal. When I was little I used think that I was swapped at birth. I don’t know why, but I always felt different. I felt out of place.
It was like there was a continuously battle between two worlds taking place. On the one hand there was this constant pursuing of my parents approval, trying to be what they expected or desired from me. On the other hand it never seemed good enough. More than often I had the feeling I was a disappointment to them. It never felt right, how hard I tried.
It’s like trying to put shoes on that are too small. You know there is no way in hell they will fit you, yet you force them on and walk your path in life.
When the truth was exposed, I felt no greater relief than finally being able to loose the footwear. Freed from the corset my scars became visible.
Yes, I am scarred. You might not notice it immediately from the outside, but deep down my roots lie open and exposed. They simply never got the chance to ground properly: they were uprooted from the start.
The soil that was offered was hit by drought, because my parents quickly realized that their children were nothing more that an expensive counterfeit version of the biological children they never had. It’s striking to notice that on either side of the wall there is grief and pain.
Once the lie was revealed my father ran straight to the exit door. Freed from the chains that had held him captivated, he chose to cut all ties. Finally he didn’t have to fake it anymore.
Since then 12 years have past and with the help of some therapists, but also sweet friends and true family, I was able to deal with some of my issues. Sure, not everything can be healed. Donor conception remains a practice where open wounds are inflicted upon those who are being created.
Till this day I am still haunted by several shadows. One of them is my last name. Every time I need to write it down, or even when I have to pronounce it, it brings me back to that part I want to forget.
Some people wear their last name with pride. I wear mine with shame, because it reminds me of the man who left us behind. Someone to whom I was never related. I never was his child in the first place. So why should I still be connected to him?