My story begins actually, at birth. I was given up for adoption. Now, don’t get me wrong… my adopted parents are wonderful, loving people and I am proud to call them my real mom and dad.
I never knew my biological mother and father… and, although I’ve found my birth mother, I still don’t know who my father is. The only reason that I really want to know, is for DNA analysis… to find out who my true ancestors were and where I “came from”.
When I was 18, I fell in with a rough crowd. We did drugs, drank, partied… everything that some teenagers do. So, the following scenario was inevitable. (This is what I have been told happened… I do not remember the day – or the months leading up to it – at all.
On October 09, 1988, a few friends and I went out to go to a party at another friend’s house. On the way there, my friend lost control of the vehicle – a 1980 Chevy Camaro with slicks for tires – and crashed head on into a tree. Remember, I do not know exactly what happened, so this is what I have been told. The paramedics ended up having to use the jaws of life to extract us from the mangled wreck.