I liken myself to a Ziploc bag.
Seriously. You do get more out of it. Strong, versatile, dependable. How did you ever manage without the genius of it, and why would you want to. I mean , food storage and freeze protection to getting your prize goldfish home alive from carnival (win-win!!) to keeping your * ahem* “dimes” properly sorted and distributed to Thanksgiving leftovers all fitting in the fridge to healthier living every other day of the year to protecting the one thing you couldn’t live without–your phone–while on a boat…or in the rain…or when tucked into a very sweaty bra while roller skating. ( It happens). Your very lifeline. Think about it.
Thank you Ziploc. You are uh-MAZE-ing!!
Yet by the end of the day what always happens? Ziploc is never coddled and taken care of. Still in perfect condition–is it run through the dishwasher and gently dried out? no. Appreciated for all the service it has performed for you? No. There are no “please don’t go, Ziploc, I promise to be a better person for you” moments. That’s not its nature to expect that of you anyway. It is disposable–part of its very charm–what it was meant to be.
So that is what I think about. Yes, really. Especially on a day like today, my birthday. Forty four years ago, February 27th, 1970, I imagine my mother giving birth to me and how she must have felt. I know what it felt like for me seeing my daughter placed on my stomach. My entire universe shifted, never to return. The fierceness of that feeling, words just don’t do it justice. I would have died for her right then, would have killed for her. If that doctor had told me right then like in some creepy alternate universe way that I couldn’t keep her and that she decided to keep her instead, I would have grabbed the episiotomy scissors right there on the tray and stabbed her in the fucking throat til she bled to death. I’d even stitch my own taint up after without a second thought. I know it to be true. A mother does what she has to. My daughter was mine.
So Like mother, like daughter, right? My mother had to have been like me somewhat, or at least fucked/knew/loved somebody like me and thought high enough about him to carry his child. Expect she wasn’t:
Oh, she was more mature than me–26 years old to my 21 when giving birth
and she was more worldly with more resources–an American woman living abroad (I was born in Germany) not a college drop out waitressing part time living at home with mom and dad. A real winner, me, at that time.
but, and most importantly, there was no grabbing of the metaphorical scissors for her. She gave me up. She being the only person I should have meant anything to….and I was not her fight.
Her reasons as good as they may have been then didn’t matter to shifted universe I was born into. That logic lost all meaning the moment I was born, and they couldn’t change the essence of what I was. Disposable. Adopted…. Ziploc.
My only saving grace.
So there it is. The reason why I am even here–born into this life when I didn’t have to be at all. It sticks with you. I am still a chosen one to my parents, lived the life of a Golden child–abet a short-lived, middle child, enigmatic, the Keegan to the Cowan family golden child (without the benefits of a Keegan-esques parent to relate) Why should I fight it? I don’t. So if you see me and it’s been months or years even since the last contact and/or I just walk out of your life due to changing circumstance. Please know that I am good and there are no hard feelings or awkwardness behind the silence. It’s not that I don’t want to see you or that I don’t need you or don’t love you. It is simply how I am and was meant to be. Independence isn’t always about a fight to show you can do something on your own. Sometimes it’s the only option you have.
There will come a time when you want me back in your life. I trust that. And when it happens I will be there for you just the same. You’ll even be all like, ” How the fuck did I ever go so long without you…” n’ shit
…and I’ll be all like, “I don’t know, dude. That’s your problem, not mine.”