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Mylene Labrie
Worked at Your Life On Fire
Lives in Charlotte, North Carolina
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Mylene Labrie

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Family & friends have often wondered why I'm so.... oddly different. Here's my answer to them and to the world. Read it, like it, share it!


Part 1



It all began over 45 years ago with a spermatozoid looking for an egg to fertilize.

Yes, just one, as the others had given up already. Too long, too far, too much competition, not feeling they were worthy of the prize. Yet, one did make it. However, when it got to the egg, it paused and took a moment to evaluate the situation. It then decided to poke its way through, and then swam back out, not sure if it was the best decision to make. After doing that a couple of times, it was stuck. Oh, it did try to sneak back out, but couldn’t.

It might be important to point out that my biological mother was single and the sperm provider was a married man whom I would never meet.



I guess I wanted to be born, but perhaps I wasn’t quite convinced that I was ready to face the path and the struggles that were going to line the way to my purpose.

My biological mother told me when I did meet her that she had me to fill a void in her life. Her own mother had passed away and she needed to care for someone. That someone was me. Being a single mother in 1967 had to be very hard as society had not yet provided the assistance it was about to offer. So, even though she did try to keep me, she had to place me in foster care during the week while she was working and would send for me so I could spend my weekends with her. After a year and a half of that lifestyle, she decided I had been confused enough. So, she gave me up for adoption. I already had a name, an identity and a whole personality just waiting to be disrupted.

My earliest memory is my sister looking at me and saying to my brand new parents that I was too big. She was almost three years old and I was just one year and one week younger than she was. She had just seen me for the first time. My adoptive parents already had two sons, who were seven and five respectively, and my new sister.

My mother (the one who adopted me) later told me that they didn’t want her to grow up surrounded by boys, so they decided to adopt. It was 1968, and in Quebec, where I’m originally from, that was still fairly common. Their order was very specific: a girl who was just a little younger than their daughter. The nurse in charge of adoptions told them that the chances of that happening were rather slim. But, here I was, in my new grandmother’s living room with my new big sister looking at me like I was an unwanted piece of hand-me-down clothing.

I was 22 months old. Funny how age is measured in months when you have so few of them behind your belt! Well, even though I was young, I would later come to find out that the struggles that I was facing were putting me on my purpose.
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