For all the years I have spent my life on earth, I couldn’t believe that this kind of truth will ever come out. Prior to the news, nobody ever said anything or act different to me. It was a true act of “Silence is Golden” and “White Lies”. I was kept in the dark, to keep me safe and sound.

On this day, 17 years ago, I learned that I was adopted and the news broke me into pieces. I couldn’t cope with the fact that I was a result of a sin, I felt shameful and I blamed myself thousands of times and over that I shouldn’t be here at all. All of a sudden, everything I knew became the strangest thing, especially when I see myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stop searching for who I am deep inside, I kept questioning whose face, arms, hands, hair, legs and body are these. If you ever sing Mulan’s theme song, “Who is that girl I see, staring straight back at me, why is my reflection someone I don’t know …” I felt exactly just that. From that point on, I want to see that man without a face, I want to know how look alike or different are we.

For 17 years, I swam through all dimensions of emotion. I felt disgusted with myself, angry with myself and with everyone I knew. I felt empty and I wanted to terminate my life. I couldn’t believe that breaking news of this magnitude, one that changes everything in my identity, was done in such a short time and they never asked me how I was doing. I had no one to talk to, I was drowned in my own confusion. Perhaps, it was because my parents saw me as too independent so that “no news means good news”, and as long as I didn’t say a thing, they thought I was okay. But turned out, I was not okay. But perhaps… it was also hard for them to have to let me know the truth. Maybe they were as broken hearted as I was.

In the early years, I created new personalities after personalities, wishing I could escape the reality and start anew, or gain my confidence to be the person I used to know in every rightful manner according to me. But, no matter how beautiful the names I invented and how meaningful they are, I couldn’t identify myself in those names. They are too beautiful for someone too filthy like me. I found it hard to just be honest with myself, that I am one lucky bastard who was adopted by a loving family who didn’t give a damn of how I was created. I have lost count of how many fictional names I created until I grew tired to restart. I can only remember the first name I gave myself. Priyanka Ramani Sekar Arundhati, meaning the beautiful girl – flower of the morning star, in the hope that I would shine every morning, greeting the universe with joy, erasing any sorrow.

In my journey, I was lucky to have had an epiphany which showed me that I was wasting too much energy to be sad and angry and even thinking about ending it all, while I could drive myself to turn it into a much more positive energy. Out of that drive, I went to the orphanage where I was once lived for a short while, hoping to find an answer, a record or some sort, that states a name or an address. Something to tell me whether it was real or a nightmare. My effort came out with no result, the headmistress told me that the record was too far away back, she couldn’t promise me anything. But she assured me that what matters are what happened today. Am I loved, have I been loved? I answered yes, beyond she can imagine. I didn’t feel like an adopted child at all, I thought I was their own. One key message that sticks to me from that short hour with her was that she reminded me of what being alive is about. When I still encounter problems, it means that I am alive. Imagine how boring life could be if there’s no problem to be solved?!

From that visit, I wrote a memoir back in 2004, titling it with the first name I gave myself, a memoir where I wish everything could be re-written differently in “His big book of life”. Today, I read it again and I am still not ready to share it with anyone else, it felt like exposing myself naked, as well as showing the wound inside my heart. I may never knew how long it will take to heal completely, but I know that I must keep going for the sake that a lot of people have given their kind and generous hands for me to keep living.

On the 10^th October this year, I just knew that it is celebrated as World Mental Health Day, and it triggered me to write this piece. I decided to rewrite snapshots that I can share, hoping that I can help others who had to face a new identity in their adult life with multiple broken hearts, disappointments and millions of unanswered questions. I want to say that although it will be a very long roller coaster emotional ride, at the end, things will be okay.

Today, I want to celebrate my life and say goodbye the history that was created before I was born. I want to shout that I love myself, the perfections and the flaws. I want to celebrate that I am beautiful with all my imperfections, and that I am precious because I was created whole. That sin, didn’t belong to me, and what I need to do is just to be the best person I can be, for others. Kindness, is my religion.

November 9 will never be forgotten and uncelebrated. Happy birthday to (new) me! I wish myself to keep healing and be reminded of how beautiful life can be when I am grateful for everything.

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This piece is inspired by the song “Utuh”, by Johannes Rusli, featuring Dira Sugandi. Thank you for reminding me to ask myself, how am I doing, and the courage to share what it is like to accept myself.

Illustration by my talented cousin, who just knew about my new birthday prior to publication of this piece. Thank you Mira!