This Day, Again

I took my first breath in the backseat of a Mercury Marauder. My birth certificate, therefore, has, "Hospital Parking Lot" written as place of birth. I switched schools often as a child and the first share day at a new school was always a no-brainer; passing around my birth certificate made me star of the moment without having to do anything. Now that I am an adult having the parking lot story in my back pocket is great for those dreaded staff-meeting icebreaker activities.

My dad says that when I was transported from the car to the infant ward my mother demanded that he follow me all the way in. It has been a favorite joke of his that he lost the nurse halfway so I might not be the same person my mother gave birth to. As a child this was welcome news. I created a whole other set of parents in my head: kind, understanding people who told me they would love me no matter what. Oh, and they had a pool, obviously.

I was my dad's fourth child and my mother's third. After me they would bring three other children into the world, and in their unique way my parents loved all of us. It was just the sort of love that fucks you up a little bit, perhaps you know the kind.

The worst thing about abuse is how much brain space that trauma occupies. My friend once read my writing and said something along the lines of the way you write is lovely, but I want you to be able to write your own story, separate from them. And the thing is, me too...it's just that it's always there. They are always there. And giving them to my writing is just me acknowledging and making sense of all the chaos in my brain.

Anyway, today is Mother's Day and there are plenty of wonderful people out there— women, men, non-binary people—who are filling the role quite splendidly. Thank you to those people for doing the hard work. And to my own mother thank you as well. Thank you for bringing me into this world, for teaching me all the days of the month, for making me finger sandwiches, showing me how to clean up a stain, and for all the ponytails you tied for me until I learned to do it on my own. I love you endlessly; I loved you even as I walked away for the last time so that I could learn to love myself.