Hello.
Twenty years ago in about five months, you were born. Twenty years and nine months if you count the period you were a guest in her womb. When they loved each other enough to make love, you’re not sure if the goal was a child, or just the pleasure of being intimate, being in love and wanting the whole building, the whole city, the whole world to know that love blossomed from each of their bodies and into one another. Months passed quietly, love and work, both activities consumed them entirely. A forgettable day became memorable. She was pregnant. 4 months.
Love was made recklessly and in the process life was created. But two lives were already in full progress. Climbing up the corporate ladder, consumed with better, desiring for more. Desire rejected the new life, it would be a hindrance, a roadblock to what those two lives in full progress were destined to achieve.
But in the midst of love they decided to love the life now living in her body. Timing was wrong, plans were obliterated, but desire still abided in both lives. They worked harder, became less invested in each other and more invested in a future that needed to be created for the life that was already changing their lives and their love.
You were born. It was a blizzard. Just the two lives, nervously starring at the new one. The freezing precip fell from the sky, a cold chill ran up their spines, the love that seemingly had inferno strength left them freezing.
The city was left for suburbia. Culture for cookie cutter. But hey, who said the American dream incorporated culture? Love was left in that small studio apartment, where love made a life that changed two. You worry they resent you.
Months passed, the new life grew. You walked and talked, you said dad first, then mom. And then they left. Desire never left either of them, while love slowly did. They went back to work, started where they had left off. A nanny became your parents. She was nice though, lovely woman. She loved the live the two had created, the life they left to continue their own. The two lives would quietly stop in your room, as if they were visiting you in their own home. They loved you, they really did.
One Christmas after another, they weren't there. The two lives off pursuing goals, attaining some America dream, which was a fucking joke. Your dream was sitting in front of a massive pine covered tree opening presents with a fucking nanny. Love never filled that house the way it did the small studio apartment where they carelessly made love and life.
Facades became a daily ritual for the two lives that no longer loved each other. Oddly enough they cared enough about the life they made to stay together, try and stick it out or whatever. You grew up, went to school, and made friends. Lived the typical American life, you were beginning to blossom while the two lives had been slowly rotting.
The nanny left, the new life wasn't so new anymore. The house got cold, almost like the blizzard you had been born on. It’s not that love wasn't there, but love for each other was gone. The two lives no longer loved each other just the one they created. How could you not love the person you made life with?
Divorce. They had rotted into corpses of who they had been in that studio apartment ten years prior. You didn't cry, you expected it. You lived, held your feels deep in the crevices of your heart and lived. Because although this is an autobiography they are your life, they gave you life and they took life from you. The emotional pain killed inside, you never think your family will be the one to explode. But you lived, made it through middle school then high school.
That was life. They offered objects instead of affection. You love them but you hate them. They should have tried harder, did better. Now you look for love in every fucking person because you didn't experience enough at home. Because the two people who had once loved each other so much couldn't even show you, their kid what the fuck love was.
You’re in college now. A pretty cool kid; you have no idea what you want to be. But you know you want to contribute; you can contribute to society, to the world, to art? Who knows what institution you’ll truly make your mark on. You love your parents, you know they want the best for you, and just like how you’re trying to navigate through the highs and lows of young adulthood, they did the same trying to figure out how to raise you. In no way is this autobiography a massacre of them, of those two lives because they were and are human, they’re growing. We’re actually growing together. I love you.
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