My mother. No, I don't mean the woman who raised me. I mean my mother. My REAL mother. Yes, I said it. Gasp and clutch your pearls. I'm sorry to have to be the one to inform you, since it seems so many of you are so confused about it. The woman who carried me to term and gave birth to me is my real mother. She is me and I am of her. I am her mirror image. Her DNA built me and her blood flows in my veins. I have no illusions about exalting her. I have no self-deception about my feelings for her. I wanted her desperately. I wanted her to be a decent human who would love me. She wasn't. I mean, I think she loved us in her own twisted way, but she was a fucked up individual. She couldn't really care about anyone but herself, and somewhere along the way someone convinced her (or, more likely, she convinced herself; my bloodline is not easily swayed or coerced,) that adopting out all eight of her children was a better choice for her than being a mother. She seemed t