Everything always felt political to me, the sensitive one. Rabbit pie. Pink frilly tulle for dancing in. Cowboys and Indians. The magic wand that didn’t really disappear things. Joan of Arc on a Sunday afternoon. Crossing my legs. Opening my legs. It felt like an invisible burden to be so stupidly concerned with everything. In my earlier years I felt it was the fairies of my escapist books, calling me to fight some yet unknown fight. I sought proof of other worlds in amongst mossy rocks and religiously followed Johnny Morris.
Chimerical tendencies and flights of fancy, seemingly easy for me to indulge in as a child, allowed an internal magic mirror that showed all insensitive others to be the poor deluded. Magical thinking was ok as it was considered part of healthy development…. until a certain age. After that I just seemed kooky.
Time to grow up. I put a cloth over the mirror and danced the dance of forced insensitivity. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. upstairs, downstairs in my lady’s chamber.
Nature was sure to get me in the end and the right chemical mix emanated from a dark strong man on a warm Summer’s day. Within months my alpha and I were nesting in a cobweb shrouded attic with little more than a mattress for sleep and a candle for light. The strength of the chemical reaction made this feel normal, a return to the old ways. By night I looked up at the sky through the broken slates and dreamed my way through a web of adventures.
The years rolled by, until I woke up with a start one day and found I had a ceiling without a sky view… and an unkempt lawn. Til death us do part. I feared a shamefully slow death of a precious love but I held tight.
The pacing eventually came. Room to room, upstairs downstairs, in my lady’s chamber, then back around again. Trying to make sense of it all. Clinically declawed by pills to make the howl of the wild subside? No. Not me. I decided to fight back with an inner call to the jaded idealist.
Running for the hills I never looked back, following my nose and the scent on the wind. I strode off the path meeting fellow fairies, faggots and freaks. Ecstatic with the freedom I skipped and jumped and howled at the moon for several sweet years. But as day follows night the strongest of all chemicals kicked in and shook me away. I yearned for a small hand in mine, a forming heart to nurture and a meaningful loss of control. I hermited and scratched my scraggy head.
Estranged from the domestic world I had forgotten the rules. Remember…… Remember…… I told myself as I stared at the flames. Ying meets Yang, Adam meets Eve, Boy meets Girl, Seed meets Egg. All clear so far but none of it fitted. Something was calling me through the haze. I scryed and scryed myself to sleep, night after night until it came crystal clear. All I had felt and all I had learned led me to know the baby was already born. Lost at sea, upturned, wild and dispossessed. A sense of urgency took over and I threw on my disguise of compliance. I had to seek approval from the keepers of the dispossessed and my resolve must be hearty. Yes sir no sir three bags full sir. Dust yourself down girl or they will know that your cloak of respectability has lain untouched for years. I was dutiful and dedicated for eighteen long months. Pan tapped on my windows and scratched on my roof. His aroma twisted down my chimney and caught in my hair……. But I was steadfast and hearty. Approval finally came.
The rebel inside whispered in my ear with a voice of disdain: “fit mother, shit mother, who decides. It all comes down to money in the end. Responsibility shifted, child shunted, kerching the dice has fallen……” But I fought it off, arguing for the one who already waited.
The approvers bought brown cardboard folders containing shattered lives. Best feet forward. Little faces looking out. No smells, no sounds, no touch.
You must choose now.
The rebel voice inside once again shouted “did you prepare me for this with your corporate psychology washed down with cheap tea? More importantly, did they prepare them? What kind of hocus pocus do I see before me? Two for the master and one for the dame and none for the little one who lives down the lane”.
Just stop thinking damn you and choose.
My chosen one was shunted towards me one autumn day. Take her to the park they said. Get to know her. Five years old she was smiling but her eyes were dark with the cornered fear of no choice. As she sat on the swing she spat in my face. Good for you I thought, the spirit’s not broken. As we rolled about in the damp earthy leaves her belly laughed out and our wild sides momentarily connected.
Delivered back to the surrogates into an awkward silence. Her best trousers were muddied. But we all knew the deed was done. Restrictive little arms wound around my neck and an intake of breath took in my scent. “I’m scared” she whispered. “I am too” she heard back. Walking away I turned to see her face at the window. Her tongue came out and so did mine.