I have been drowning for two years with two weights tied to my legs, pulling me beneath the surface, dragging me down. The first weight was my biological father ending our relationship, and subsequently being ignored by every member of his family.

My heart breaks for my friends and other fellow donor conceived people who have reached out to their sperm sellers and been rejected. To clarify, I use the term “sperm seller” because “sperm donor” does not correctly portray the American industry.

I finally found the email of the man who I think is my donor dad. It took me about three weeks to work up the nerve to email him. I finally did, last night.

Donor conceived people are sometimes criticized for being angry. I am one of them, and I’m ok with that.

“Do you have any siblings?.” I’ve been asked that question so many times that I developed an automatic response: “No, I’m an only child.” Even when asked now, sometimes I’ll cut myself off in the middle of answering, reminding myself of my new reality.

Donor conceived people hear this a lot. And sure, on paper and in my heart he is, but he’s not in the nucleus of my every cell. He’s not in the chromosomes of my children, no matter how hard or how long I wished he was.

Those who pose existential questions like this cannot imagine the traumatic and confusing situations that many donor-conceived people regularly experience, and they are unable to see that the question itself is rude, hurtful, and irrelevant.

“Your parents are the people who raised you,” says everyone who has a complex about that particular thing. I agree. They are. But so is he.

I have an unknown amount of siblings. I just found a new brother. I can’t contact him. I want to know him. I mean, why wouldn’t I? He’s my, from what I can see, baby brother.