Part of the story I was told about my infancy included the tale of how colic I was. My parents would stay up with me for hours. Rocking, singing, pacing. They would fall asleep with pillows propping up their arms should they fall asleep with me in their arms.
The other part of my story is how my parents adopted me at 12 days old. They were told my mother wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep me or not. When I spoke with her she told me she had held me and named me during this time.
My infant mind had only known one reality for 9 months and 12 days. My infant mind only knew her.
To this day it feels as though my world is ending when I experience a loss. Like my insides are peeling away from my skin and my skin burns when it is touched. My life has been a rehearsal of connection and abandonment, disappearing and seeping into others because I don’t know what blood connection is.
So when she tells me she is going to call me on Monday. Even when she promises I tell myself it isn’t going to hurt if she doesn’t because I have been preparing for her to leave again my whole life.