Chapter 1.2: Found In Pain

Lost dreams can’t hurt me if I don’t dream them. Because memories are bad enough . . .

My parents were teenagers when I was conceived. They were kids, just kids . . . with no idea of where they were going, or how they were going to get there. Their dreams were minimal because their eyes were blinded by a cataract by the stereotypes and labels that hung about their heads. Days run and run with no ending line in sight. So how were they to know, how am I to know . . . where it is people are going—where it is I am going. What the whole purpose is—skewed and deflected . . . This life, this time that we have here on this earth is fading . . .  so quickly . . . and the consequences once decisions made lay so heavily burdening those sometimes to where those can't stand. So by this cataract they could not see, and many of the things they could not see, could not comprehend, was that of the benefit of waiting to be together. Why not? When death was all around you and heartache was a natural common companion; when failure showed its face every turn of the head? So I, was conceived, and nine months later born.

My mother had been kicked out of her home when her stomach began to show signs that I was, and was living with my father in his home at the end of her tenth grade year. While his life was becoming torn by the distance being created with his mother and father, a new life was blossoming for him. He had me on the way and my mother was by him destined to be all his. My mother was 16 and he was 18, heading to play basketball at the University of Kansas the next fall. My mother was planning on going there too; because of her academic brilliance that enabled her to leave a year earlier than her other peers. And indeed they did go, and they lived life abundantly those four years together. For they were inseparable those years; deeply in love with each other. Mother and Father both finished college, obtaining their degrees and due to my father's talent in basketball, he would play in the NBA the following year.

My Grandmother on my mother's side would not take care of me. She stated to my mother strictly that I was "not her responsibility", and that she had me and would therefore "take care" of me. My mother could not take care of me, because that would jeopardize her ability to receive an education. Unfortunately, and likewise, my Grandmother and Grandfather on my father's side echoed the same thing as my mother's mother that they would not take care of me. Plus, at the time they had young children of their own.

Consequently they put me in the orphanage as a holding place until they could come and get me. Rarely did I see them, and because of my young age I don't even remember them, the times when they did come. My mother's face was a blur to me for a long time and then as I became older it disappeared altogether. I stayed in the orphanage for four years, alone, and because of my age mostly in isolation. I could not speak because of my age, could not comprehend much because of my age. I was totally alone in this big, scary world—painful world. 

You would think that, since college is four years, for my parents to return to me when I turned four years old. But instead it came to be that my father did not remain in the NBA long, because he was caught with a ton of drugs in his car and was put in jail for five years. He did not show his face . . . Neither did my mother. For she went on to work somewhere else . . . completely forgetting about me. Possibly she thought I could remain in the orphanage for a couple more months, maybe years . . .

I turn over onto my stomach and sigh deeply, looking at the ground as if in a trance . . . I wonder about my mother. I wonder about where she is and why she won’t ever tell me. I hate being a child and not knowing things. I hate how . . . she sends the letters and they come but she never comes. As if she doesn’t exist, because even though she kisses the paper at the end—her signature of sorts, it doesn’t complete me in the way that I thought it did or thought it would. And though I hold her picture in my pocket it’s like looking at the picture of an eagle in those books that I get from the library at school; where I run my fingers over it and try and grasp everything I can but I get nothing. Because wonder and awe is gone and it’s like progression and knowledge become stagnant . . . I need to be able to touch . . . feel.

I roll my sleeves up as slowly as I can. Scared to look at my wrists but I have to. It’s like getting a shot. And slowly I pull up my left sleeve, and while holding my breath, I look at my wrist, and immediately no tears fall . . . immediately no tears fall. Because feelings are no longer feelings—no longer existent in this world. Gone and adrift. 

Small cuts on my wrists like paper cuts, with a few larger cuts that sting horribly still, worse than when they were created. And my wrist still swells, now turning from bright red to a faint purplish and blackish glow. I try to bend it but it screams out in pain and so I refrain, and spin on my back bringing the sleeve back over my wrist, staring out at the sky. 

I like the sunset and the sunrise. But I feel it’s only because it’s the only thing that keeps me company.

I bring Big Bird to my chest and hold onto him closely and try and rock myself back to sleep for a few more minutes before mom comes in, in whatever form she might come in. And I cry for the first time in a long time. I suppose not immediately, but eventually.

“D.J.?” I look to my right wearily and see my mother. And praise something, I see my mother.

“Mommy . . .” She smiles sweetly at me and runs her hands through my hair staring at me as though she hasn’t seen me in so long. And sometimes, I believe she has.

“Hey baby . . . you going to school today?” I breathe in deeply and look across the room. I’m tired of playing . . . “Baby what’s wrong?” And this is the worst of it. I hate it when she comes back and she finds out. And she cries inside herself. Because she never cries in front of me and sometimes . . . sometimes I just want her to cry in front of me and let me know that she feels too. Or at least something in her feels and is real and living—righteous. 

She frowns at me ever more as I begin to cry. Cry and cry, my chest heaving terribly. For she’s been gone for two whole weeks . . . two whole weeks without relief that I thought he had completely stolen her away and she would never come back.

“Baby what happened?” She whispers, barely audible. I shake my head no, and turn away from her. Crying from the depths of my soul so hard that I begin to wail and wail. I’d never do it if he was here, but she’s here. Or so I think. Or so I pray. And louder and louder my cries become because it’s only seldom that I cry. And with so much pain, I, I have to get it out somewhere . . . somewhere.

She touches my back and pulls me toward her, but I don’t budge. I don’t want her to look at me. I want her to know that I can take care of myself—that I can keep our secret a secret. I can Mommy, I promise. I will. I will. I will . . . I won’t let them take you away.

“Baby . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry.” I turn around and face her, my eyes so weary. And my heart so weary. Everything so tired and hurt, drained . . . I reach up and touch her face and hold her in my hands and shake my head slowly.

I wipe away her tears and try and breathe . . . breathe. For I know she hurts . . . I know she hurts.

“I’m so sorry baby . . .” I hear her whisper in life. But I’m dead. The dead hear nothing. The dead hear everything.

I close my eyes slowly and breathe—breathe. She’s back. She’s back. Even if for a little while . . .

This orphanage that I was detained to was full of corruption. The adults, who were supposed to protect the children