Any day now. That is what I keep telling myself. It is what
An envelope, inside of which one life begins, another ends – again. How many lives have I lived so far? How many more to come? Were any of them real?
I have the writing on paper and computer showing me all of these people I have been, I have the pages torn through with pen. I need these to prove that I exist, to prove to myself – and others.
Look, look at me, see my heart, read my soul, feel my flesh… see me.
SEE me, for what I am, what I have been, what I could be. Look into these eyes all the greens of the Sea and SEE.
See that I love you for your wonderful or horrible childhood, see that I detest you because I would give anything to be beaten, scorned, loved, anything – anything, as long as I could look into the eyes of the Mother or Father beating me and know that they were MINE to love – or hate. That I came from them, their moment of ecstasy, and whether they were ready for a spirit as strong as mine – a spirit that I have built, stone by stone, day by day, into this person that I think I am; (This “person”? This Man?) they were mine, all mine, to say Good Bye to, forever.
Yes, good bye. It is what I know, the first thing I was taught, the very first thing that I was trained to believe in – that nothing is permanent, that you all will go away. This lesson sits in a place that I have no access to; I can only hope for the best – but this hope is based in my mind, this belief that you might stay is solely intellectual – I am no less than amazed when you are still there, still share your heart with me, after so many years…
Alive and covered with blood, torn from the womb I became in, sent into the world as an outsider, an outcast, an object to be passed onto others…
I tried to be like how I saw them. I tried to find myself in them. I tried to behave, to be the good son that they paid so much for in order to complete the ideal, regulation family of the times.
I was nothing like them. Not my mom, dad, or sister. I can’t even imagine how frustrated they felt – all the years of behavioral therapy, family therapy, trying to figure out what was wrong with me – and it was *always* me. My fault, my disobedience that they centered on – why can’t I just be the perfect little boy, like my perfect older sister who they paid for too?
It was the secret. *I* was the secret. Adoption was not seen as anything that could be harmful then – after all, I was lucky. Lucky to be adopted into a loving family, lucky to be “chosen”.
Fuck your secrets, fuck what the neighbors may think when I was bad, so bad, badbadbadbadbad. Yes, it was me who accidentally set my mattress on fire when you were having a cocktail party – there was a small hole on the bottom side of it, and I just wanted to clean up that hole – I didn’t have scissors so I used a lighter, and it worked! It worked too well. What they don’t tell you when the mattress stuffing is chemically treated to be inflammable is that regardless of how much water you pour on it, it will keep smoldering.
Oops. Fuck you. I was maybe eight years old.
Yes, it was me who drove the Impala for the first time when I was 10, then ran the mom’s Mercury Zephyr station wagon three feet into my room when I was eleven. You were out at a party – but at least then, I told the truth. I weighed the consequences, and realized that honesty really was worth something – though my friend & I thought of every other possible way to get out of it…
I took all of your hidden silver quarters and bought candy and super-balls. Hell, I didn’t know. I found your pistols and shot the little cabin you had built for us, and I guess the four barrel .22 thing couldn’t handle it and the catch broke – yes, it was me, everything me… and it was also me who hid the single can of beer that I found in Katherine’s drawer, hid it much better and left her a note so she wouldn’t get in trouble. I mean hell, she cried over getting a B in class… She is your golden child. You invested well in her…..
And I still loved her, even through our differences, until only recently.
Where was she when I was in the hospice? No calls, no visit even though it is on her way home – nothing.
I can’t help but wonder if any of you would even care if I were dead – but believe me, your actions say it all.
So I wait for this envelope, look for it every day in the mail. Expecting it.
Any day now…please.
They said it would take $100 and up to eight months. I paid the money to the adoption agency, paid the $2500 to the search company, and got a letter from my good friend and Doctor which the agency received and said that, due to my “terminal” illnesses, they would expedite – and that was two months ago, after a Fourteen Fucking YEAR search.
A search that I took on myself in the beginning, a search that brought the impenetrable walls crumbling down, releasing the me, mySelf, my soul in words that I didn’t even remember writing on every scrap of paper I could find, the Me who felt FUCKING EVERYTHING until there I was nothing, who put my .38 Colt Cobra in my mouth – then took the pressure off of the trigger…
The me who I became to be, because that was all that I could, and can, be.
I wait for the envelope that contains the non-identifying information, because that is all the search company needs to verify the person that they think, they think, they just need to check the details to find out if…
if it is the one person that I need to meet. If it is the one person that I might find an answer in – a thousand answers, without saying a word.
If she is even alive.
GODS, please… as I have written before……
I don’t want the first flowers I give her, from my love, from my heart, from my hatred, from me…
to be laid gently upon her grave.