Were wounds so old, ever so raw…
* * *
It would seem that one never quite recovers from that first loss.
We must endure a severance of that which was never intended to be severed.
So, almost as though we believe there is no other way, we spend the remainder of our lives dropping pieces of ourselves as we choose to leave or to be left—convinced that there is no hope of ever being whole again.
* * *
I see it over and over again among adoptees—a pattern of being left and leaving. It is as though we cannot but repeat that which was done to us.
We cannot live life without wounding ourselves and wounding those who surround us—time and time again.
It is as though the abandonment has become a part of our blood, our flesh so that it begins to trickle out into everything and everyone we touch.
* * *
Nothing seems able to satiate the persistent emptiness and loneliness, the ravenous depth of insecurity and uncertainty that tells me the world will always choose to leave me behind.
* * *
Body convulsing and mouth quivering, the words were choking in my throat.
Please, don’t ever leave me.
And how does one ever convince someone like me that he or she will not leave?
It is not his or her fault nor within his or her control that I am consumed by such a fear. And yet, how can a human being ever make such a promise without telling some form of a grey lie, wrapped in a thin veil of good intentions.
I know you’ll say that you will never leave me. And you would be the first to ever utter such a commitment, such a vow.
To this day, you have kept your word.
This makes me cry. This will always make me cry.
But these are the kind of tears that taste sweet, and those without which I hope I will never have to live.