Jesus, a Sketchbook and My Bubble

Published by Heather Louise on August 2, 2020August 2, 2020

That day, branded in my head. January 17th, 2019. It was a Thursday. My boyfriend, Danny, was getting ready to leave when I saw the email come through. My results were in from 23andMe. Around Christmas, I spit in a tube and sent it off to get my DNA analyzed. Danny asked me if I wanted him to open the email. I said yes. I remember being excited, but also a teeny bit apprehensive too. I was sure the results were going to come back that I was some percentage Mexican-Indian and all of this nonsense that rolled around in my brain every once in a while could finally be put to rest. I needed to stop Stormie’s jabbing voice in my head. YOUR FATHER IS NOT EVEN YOUR REAL FATHER.

We were sitting on the couch. Danny opened the results and laughed for a sliver of a second. I watched as his smile quickly faded and tears filled his eyes. He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry sweetheart. It’s not what you want to hear.” I could not wrap my head around his words. He said, “You are 27% Italian.” He turned the computer screen towards me and I scanned down through the results, opening up every drop down to find any trace of Mexican or Indian. Nothing. No. This isn’t right.

Wait. My sister, Kelly. She tested with 23andMe. I texted her and asked if she could share her results with me. I didn’t tell her why I was asking. And thankfully, she didn’t ask.

I quickly compared our DNA reports to each other. My results were on the left, Kelly’s on the right. My eyes moved from side to side, looking for the mistake. And there it was, right there in front of my face. My left side said 27% Italian, her right side 0% Italian. Her right side said 26% Native American, my left side 0% Native American. There was no mistake. DNA does not lie. I scrolled to the bottom of the reports.

“Your Genetic Relationship – We do not detect shared DNA between you and Kelly.”

It took just one minute, and all of the half-siblings that I had on my Dad’s side, were biologically wiped out. The entire Cruz family, gone. I felt dizzy. My living room began to spin. Breathe, Heather. Breathe. Then the rage.

THAT FUCKING WHORE! THAT FUCKING WHORE! THAT FUCKING WHORE! Those are the only words I could scream. Stormie knew. She knew all along. Not only did she take away my ever having a mother, now, from her grave, but she just took away the only father I have ever known. I wished my Dad was still alive, so he could kill her dead again. THAT FUCKING WHORE. I HATE HER.

Stripped raw. No words can describe the emotions of this past year. At times, I have questioned my own sanity. Mostly, it is because I can’t find the words to describe how I feel.

I have always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, or to anyone. ALWAYS. I felt like I was floating around in a bubble, unattached to any place or person. The bubble was my safe place and Jesus kept me protected in it. I still feel this way today. But now I realize that these feelings of unattachment were valid. And there is even a word for this feeling.

Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.

Yep, that pretty much describes it. Until January of 2019, I couldn’t explain this feeling, even to myself. I heard family members say that they thought I was stuck-up or that I thought I was too good for the Cruz family. That was not true, ever. I just felt very out of place. And because I couldn’t understand why I felt this way, I became even more uncomfortable. But now I do know. I never genetically belonged to the Mexican-Indian family. I could not identify with them. I love them, of course, but they aren’t my true tribe.

My DNA knew all along though. I would draw pictures of half my face (see post photo, drawn in 2002). I found that drawing in a sketch pad that I gave to my daughter a couple of years ago. For some reason, I asked her to keep the drawing in the book. Then recently, my sister Kelly asked me to come over and go through an old chest of our Dad’s. At the bottom of the chest, I found a wire notebook and began to leaf through the pages. In the very back, I found a drawing that I scribbled when I was around 9 or 10 years old when we lived in Texas. It took me a second to figure out what the drawing was, but when it became clear, chills ran all through my body. It was an almost identical drawing to the one from 2002. Both pictures are the left side of my face and both pictures have tears. Four years ago, my FB profile was a photo that I took in the mirror, of half my face. That photo is now the image for this blog. I can’t explain any of this. And honestly, it freaks me out. A lot.

I never felt whole, something was missing. Until now. I have been asked if I wish I had never taken the DNA test. My answer is no, I wouldn’t change it. Now I have the answer to WHY I felt like a stranger to myself. Even though I am having trouble identifying with the Italian DNA, it makes more sense to me. As far back as I can remember, I have said, “I swear I’m part Italian.”

Funny. I thought it was my love for saucing all the things, adding more sauce plus sauce on the side, good pizza, and watching Morra at the Lowellville festival. My truth is, I’ve always been part Italian.