A Story about Disconnection

I have always been the impatient type. Some may say it’s because of a need to be seen, or a fear of abandonment. It was all of these, yet none of them happening nowhere and everywhere constantly. Nonetheless impatient I remain. I was born July 7th, 2003 three months ahead of schedule. Considering the rest of my life I would be viewed as a set-piece, seen and used when needed invisible otherwise, this was the one true bang of my life. Consequently, the next six months would be spent in an incubator alone, being poked and prodded, like a science experiment. Foreshadowing the trajectory of a life yet to be lived.

When I was four, I underwent heart surgery. What seemed most peculiar to me, and continues to puzzle me to this day is the lack of self-awareness adults have. My family was telling me to be brave and strong, while they were presenting themselves to me as anything but. The adoration from adults masked a fear of the cold unforgiving truth called death. The toys being a plea, a tribute to an unknowing offering of a child. The only truly honest face I looked into were my cousin's’, green with envy to be in my place if only to feel acknowledged. This being my first moment in a hospital, I was completely unaware that the coming hours would unleash months of burning agitation. The scar from that surgery never fully faded away, but simply shortened in length. My father would apply vitamin E by cutting then pressing it into my scar. I imagined it felt like being branded repetitively, without ever fully cooling. The pittance of a life spared was a reminder of the balancing of scales.

My early life was spent primarily alone. My father worked and went to college full time, while my mother would waste her life away playing Farmville and Happy Aquarium. I never felt seen by my mother. I reconcile the lack of relation by viewing her as a woman who was roped into a life far too constrictive then she’d imagined, the truth being much harsher and harder to deal with. Aside, from the occasional visit to a cousin's home or the miracle of a friend; my time was spent mirroring my mother’s attempt of a mental escape; pretending things I’d never experienced and yearning for connection.

Disconnection is defined as “The act of detaching one thing from another.” This definition presumes responsibility that my generation hasn't asked for nor do we possess the understanding to wield it. A preferred definition is "the act of feeling alone, either in a physical distance or emotionally. " An article I read recently said that teen girls of my generation resent technology more than previously assumed and that we yearn for a connection to our families.

I have always enjoyed learning. The smell of a new book, the vast openness of a fresh empty sheet of paper would fill my soul with bubbling anticipation. I felt like I could be as weird and as kooky as I desired without resenting the expectations' others would place upon my shoulders. In a strange turn of events the start of school, the 3rd grade wasn’t the sweet triumph I expected. I scored too low to be gifted yet I wasn’t too behind to receive attention for my academic lackluster. I was suddenly like a book that had once been interesting but, was now novel and presumptuous. The only times that I ever seemed to standout were for bd things or those that I had no control over. I hadn’t chosen to read early. I hadn't chosen to have a death mark or be abandoned by my mother. When I fell behind in math I was seen as a disappointment, and like I wasn’t trying enough. Instead of receiving assistance, I was pushed to either sink or swim, without knowing how to do either. I was left once again, alone. My Dad attempts to bond with me now, and while I try to it seems like reconnecting is much harder than disconnecting. #bevulnerable #contest #spurtsofdark