Before we begin-
I used to-and still partially do, though I am becoming educated in its art-believe the memoir to be a selfish, narcissistic endeavor of which only those who had no other medium to express themselves did so. In accordance to the title of this… Must I say it-Memoir, now I am the one who has been compelled to chronicle a variance of select events in my life.
This project has been commissioned by the Creative Writing class I am currently enrolled in, and the project will involve twelve chapters and an epilogue-one representative of each week preceding the date it is due. It is my genuine hope that I will continue to post unrelated articles throughout these upcoming thirteen weeks, but if life gets ahold of me, bear with my unapologetic posts regarding my subjective perspective on my own life. So in other words, not much is going to change.
Chapter One: Womb Service, Please
One of my favorite things to freak myself out about is the fact that we have already spent a billion times more time in a nonexistent state than an existent one, and that we all fear the recurrence of nonexistence as if we have not already experienced it. I was fine before I popped into this world, and I’ll be fine when I pop out of it.
I called for womb service a day before I was supposed to check out of my womb at the mo(m)tel because I was a selfish, stubborn, impatient child who wanted to be a strong independent woman a day early. So, at 2:29 in the morning on March 22, 1998, I cried my way from one mom to another in the process which we call adoption. The whole shebang required a day’s worth of paperwork, so on March 23, 1998, I became my adoptive mother’s 34th birthday present. Now, if I’ve successfully confused you, yes, I was expected on my adoptive mother’s birthday and ended up in her arms that day instead. If that’s not divine intervention, I don’t know what to tell you.
My parents whisked me home to the cozy, storybook abode that I would call home for the first four years of my life, where the lovely couple next door would adopt me as their own as well and become some sort of surrogate grandparents for me as my mother taught and father worked during the day.
When my baby brother arrived, he was the genetic combination of my current mother and father, however strange it was that he was to be the only one of the family who boasted an affinity towards the use of his right hand.
As our family grew, my parents decided that our house should, too.
Jack was not yet six months old when we moved into our second yellow house-ours has been compared to the stereotypical American family, substitute the dog for a cat-and I remember sitting as still as possible in my kiddie rocking chair in my empty blue bedroom, staring up at the squares the previous owners had painted on the walls as if they were windows to the cloudy sky above.
Over the years, Jack and I joined our parents-against our will, more likely than not-in summering at the cottage they had purchased the year before I was born. I have referenced to it as my parents’ first child, due partially to the fact that they could have probably sent another child to a respectable college with the resources they dedicated to the place.
It is, in fact, yellow as well, if you must know.
Our years as younger children were nothing erratically out of the ordinary; neighbors with a boy my age and a girl one year younger than Jack moved in about a year or so after we arrived, and the adults always harassed us about getting married when all any of us were interested in was drawing in chalk on the pavement and blowing bubbles while occasionally trying to rudely pop a bubble in our sibling’s eye.
We have, thankfully, matured since then. At our current points in life, my mother has retired, her teaching revolving around Jack and I and life lessons we occasionally scoff at like the children we are; my father now co-owns a business with my uncle that has set up Sprint stores around the state; my brother is a big man on campus at our Junior High; and I’m a willingly and happily overly-committed high school senior. My current situation involves a life that strikingly parallels that of my freshman year-I am cultivating a comfortable, constantly fluctuating environment consisting of a wide variety of gorgeously and contagiously strange and unique friends,
I have an overly excitable personality,
my sense of humor involves bad puns and either self-depreciating or severely narcissistic quips about the Queen of Trash that I pride myself in being,
I still have this unavoidable pressure in my chest, as well. It’s as if a helium balloon is just chilling in my sternum. There’s something I need to do-something I’m meant to do, and I have no idea what or where it is. I just trust that I’ll lead myself there, however blindly, and with whomever I’m bound to meet on the way. Somewhere down the line, I’ll find it.