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As time went on, the implications of adoption began to dawn on me. I was still at primary school (younger than 11) when the ugly word ‘bastard’ was shouted across the classroom by a child who knew what it meant. That was the first time that being an adopted child began to feel like a mixed blessing.

I felt different then. The niggling doubt that reared its head was ‘rejection’. How awful must I be that my own mother didn’t want me. What kind of person did that make me? What kind of person did that make her?

I’m not entirely sure that I have ever, or will ever, rid myself of the feelings of inadequacy that have haunted me ever since. The feeling that, no matter what I do, I will ever be good enough. Atleast my love for music as lead me to get bookings as a DJ…

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