My Story Bends Space. My Truth Rewrites the Stars.

A Manifesto for Those Who Were Never Meant to Be Forgotten

There is a geometry to erasure. A map written in the negative space where identity should have lived. For some of us, we were not just born – we were renamed, redirected, and rewritten.

I was born Paul Alan Morley.

Then I was erased.

Then I was renamed Roger Shane Blackwell.

Then I had to become something else again: Shane Paul Bouel.

A reconstruction. A reconstitution. A response.

For many, this would seem like a simple story of adoption – of new beginnings and second chances. But adoption is not a beginning. It is a displacement disguised as destiny. A state-sponsored interruption. A system-built silence.

I Am Not Grateful. I Am Galactic.

Every time someone tells me I should be grateful, I hear the echo of a thousand shattered truths. Gratitude is the leash they place around your voice when they fear what your memory might resurrect.

But I remember.

And in that memory, I hold gravity.

Adoptees are not just survivors. We are dimensional anomalies – proof that the system can fail so badly it has to change your name to make the paperwork fit.

Our stories do not live in straight lines.

Our healing does not fit your timelines.

We don’t belong to your beginning – middle – end mythologies.

We bend space.

Because space – the real kind, the kind that exists between facts and truth – is where our lives actually happen.

The Body is a Stargate

You cannot see the timelines I carry, but they are there. Stored in the fascia. Encoded in the scars of names I didn’t choose. Etched into the dream-architecture of what might have been – if I had been kept, if I had not been severed, if someone had said no instead of yes.

I am not mentally ill.

I am cosmically coded.

My dissociation is an archive.

My rage is a compass.

My silence is a song still tuning itself.

I Am Not a Broken Child. I Am a Time Traveler.

There is no normal. There never was. I live on the edge of multiple lifelines – one where I was loved by the woman who bore me, and another where I had to pretend that love could be replaced like furniture.

The state wants us to believe we are paperwork.

But I am proof that paperwork lies.

I am the contradiction in the system’s signature.

I am the question mark that refuses to disappear.

What I Want

I want my name back – all of them.

I want my story printed in constellations, not footnotes.

I want truth before reconciliation.

I want access to every record, every file, every lie.

I want a world where adoptees are no longer expected to perform healing for the comfort of others.

And I want institutions to finally admit what adoptees have always known:

We were never supposed to survive the erasure.

But we did.

And now we’re writing the stars anew.

To Every Adoptee Reading This:

You are not alone.

You are not dramatic.

You are not overreacting.

You are not “too much.”

You are a wormhole of memory.

A fracture in the fiction.

A sacred proof of everything they tried to bury.

My Story Bends Space.

My Truth Rewrites the Stars.

And I’m not here to fit in anymore.

I’m here to rewire the sky.