I might have been a great artist or an inventor or the world’s youngest CEO, if only Mommy and Daddy had not wanted me. Or if Mommy had but not Daddy, or if Daddy had but not Mommy. Or if they had wanted me at first but then, for reasons no one could ever quite put into words, one day suddenly changed their minds.
I mean, I am gay and a little creepy-looking. Plenty of children have been rejected for less.
Or else my folks could have wanted me way too much, leading them to that kind of unnatural clinginess and dependency that goes on way past the age at which such a thing is really healthy. That would have been a way to screw me up something awful.
If my parents had died before I ever got to know them at all, I might have had a hole way down at the very center of ME that I’d always try and fill with a parade of slightly self-destructive but incredibly interesting things.
I mean, they did die, and when I was only twelve years old, to boot. But by then, the damage had already been done: I was already a happy, well-adjusted person with a positive outlook and a basic trust in the inherent goodness of the Universe, and that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you for life.
I was never rejected.
I was never abused.
As a result, I have never experienced that legendary drive to achieve that I hear comes with pumping one’s fist in the air and crying out, “Oh yeah? I’ll show you I’m not worthless, Daddy!”
My parents did not really fuck me up.
My childhood was just… happy. Comfortable. Ideal, really. I felt loved then, so I’m not haunted or compensating for anything now.
And for that, I will never forgive them.