Kiki has a great post about what her novels had been trying to tell her all the time, even before she Saw her mother for what she was.
When I was 16, I wrote a Gnostic play in which the most vividly depicted character was the false god, the petty, evil, tyrannical, jealous, vengeful Demiurge who demanded worhip.
There was also the Unknown Real Father who actually fathered Adam's soul, because the Demiurge is, of course, sterile - he cannot create life. Only appropriate it and imprison it. So the Demiurge takes Adam over and lies to him that he is actually the one who fathered him.
The play ends with the Demiurge brainwashing Adam into worshipping him, the only real Daddy.
I promised myself I wouldn't let myself get carried away with the rumor of being the child of a donor, but this struck such a deep chord within me, something I've felt in my bones all my life. Something I seem to have written about long ago.
I might even settle for the whole "child by an unknown donor" story as a symbolic truth for my life. Not necessarily literally true, but more than so. Literarily true. If I were to write an autobiographical novel now, the main character would be the child of a donor. Even if this did not actually happen in my life.