Betwixt & Between

The past is the past.

Let the dead bury the dead.

I should be over it.

No one wants to hear about this, no one else can understand except those very, very few.

I don’t have the right to feel this, to talk about this; it isn’t fair to others.

It will only open old wounds…

and of course, those lovely words from my adoptive mom when I was searching before: “I don’t know why you’re bothering with this, she’s probably dead anyway.”

The mind, the ego, has its own repertoire of rationalizations that keep us quiet, keep what we truly feel suppressed. Emotional debts to the past in the form of feelings we can’t allow ourselves to express, but the past isn’t over as long as these debts go unpaid. It coils around our soul, suffocating us, keeping us from who we truly can be, living our lives in quiet desperation and pretending that everything is alright…

But I am a construct of my past, the things I cannot forget, the things I cannot let go, the things that made me who I am – a boy forever searching for Self, denied by law the right to see a true record of my birth. Though I look human, my life is a hard-wired fantasy that has no beginning; I am one of the Unborn. I bleed and get sick just like you, but astonish the doctors when I don’t die.  By others I have been called an illusion, an apparition, a vision, a ghost. Wrapped up in myth, living a life of secrets and taboo from time before my first memory, I never became so I never can be, living a life of fiction where I am the author…

They say that you cannot change the past, but they are wrong. Terrifyingly wrong.

In my heart there is a hole, a hole shaped like her, and no one else can fit it. Fill it.

Why would I want them to?

Of course I have tried, not expecting anyone to be able to, but perhaps they could blunt the edges that have cut this mold, this man, that boy, that child I once was and still am – that child that can be seen through the razor edges in this man’s heart, looking out at you, looking into each strangers eyes, searching for the arms, for the voice, for the hearts beat that soothes and mothersoft skin that was comfort, that held the promise that everything would be alright, that even in this world of suffering I was safe, protected… that I was hers.

That I belonged… not only in this world, but also – belonged *to* someone.

I received a call on Friday – the search is moving forward, they are making progress. I play the message over and over again. As soon as they receive the non-identifying information from the adoption agency (which in CA commonly takes up to eight months for a couple of pieces of fucking paper), they “should be able to wrap things up fairly quickly.”

I need to change. I need to start living again, break out of what I let the past couple of years of bouncing from one hospital bed to the other do to me, and again be a part of my life; create, perform, breathe… exist.

I need to be someone that she would be proud to meet.

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4 responses to “Betwixt & Between

  1. I just read your heart felt words, my 2 year old daughter, just waking from her nap, sitting on my lap nursing…..from one mother to yours…she thinks of you, just like you do her….that same painful place, the emptiness….she feels every day….I promise you. She wonders what you look like, what you do…..who you are, she would be fiercely proud of you..I’m sure….

    • Molly – thank you. I really prefer to believe that and hope, if she is still alive, that it is true, and it will be a fairytale ending of the search and beautiful beginning of a relationship with my mother, but I also must be pragmatic – or at least *try* to be, and realize that it might not be all that I have dreamed it would for so many years.
      Still, your kind and encouraging words are taken to heart, and very much appreciated.

  2. kSea, you have every right to your feelings, and to talk about them anywhere you wish. Especially *here,* where those of us who are listening want to hear everything you have to say..m

    I know you already know this; I just felt a need to validate

    • Yeah, I have little problem here – quite honestly I couldn’t give a f*ck what people think about what I write… well, okay, that’s not entirely true, or I wouldn’t wish so much that I could write like I once did or be such an unforgiving judge of my writing – but writing has always been much easier than talking for me – and I wonder how different the world would be if people were more open in what they feel in everyday life; if the question that is always asked in greeting “”Hey, how are you?!” – was actually met with more honesty instead of the commonly mundane response.
      Would we think twice about asking if we really wanted to know how everyone we proposed that question to was? Of course – but I believe that, in that honesty, the value of a “friend” would take on a much more heartfelt meaning. We would certainly call less people friends, and fewer would call us the same, but the ones that we *did* call that would be golden.

      Or something like that. I haven’t had any coffee yet this morning. {:^P

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