Sunday, December 13, 2015

Womb Twin Survival, Hanging On Somewhere, and Vera

These past several days have been brutal.  And I mean brutal as fuck.

It doesn't feel real that I have been placed on a more accelerated track to my eventual demise.  I mean, what did I do to my evil twin (or triplet pair) that I now have to think about hella more serious things, like getting a health care power of attorney and living will established to keep my family away from me if and when I become incapacitated?  I'm glad I have some folks who are willing to step up for me to be my PoA, but that's not my point. About a month before turning 35, with no spouse or children, I shouldn't have to worry about such random end of life decisions. Then again, I don't want my dead body to go into the possession of my family, who will end up cremating my remains (way against Jewish law), like my father's plan to have my grandmother cremated, instead of buried in a coffin, next to her third husband, because he doesn't want to spend the money to do so (I was in the funeral office back in August 2014 when my father made this and other decisions about my grandmother's after fate).

To put it out there, I am scared as hell.  Heh, the next time I go into the grocery store, I need to start investigating which vitamins that serve older feminine anatomies over the age of 50 will best suit my needs.  Ugh, and if that's not bad enough, I need to make sure I don't experience this epic hell called vaginal dryness.

Yeah, hot flashes don't scare me as much as not being able to get laid ever again.  I think the toothy bastard(s) don't want me to score an orgasm anymore because of all the fun I used to have.  Bunch of jealous motherfuckers, aren't they?

With the whole concept of womb twin survivors, those (like myself) who were born live already came into this world all traumatized and such. We (supposedly) felt or knew there was a presence next to ourselves in the womb, and then felt the loss when their bodies were gobbled up or became stillborn or what have you. I say supposedly, because as someone who is pro-choice, if fetuses are able to communicate and have a basic understanding of a human while they are still being constructed in the factory, then we need to start giving said fetuses Social Security cards and tell their sorry butts to get to work and quit feeding off of the host of the American taxpayer.

Okay, maybe not like that exactly.

From my understanding of how I was brought into this world, it goes a little something like this:

I was born as a pretty much standard sized baby; 8 lbs, 6 oz, 19 3/4 long.  No premature birth; I was the surprise of a lifetime when my parents procreated on my dad's 37th birthday or thereabouts (*shivers*).

Over the years, I learned more about my introduction into this world from my family:

I was supposed to have been a boy.

My name was going to be Victor **********, Jr.

My mother "miscarried in 1976".  Don't know if that's true or not, but it's a bit fascinating to know.

And when I had my first oophrectomy in 2005, when I was told I was a surviving twin, it felt weird then.  It still feels weird now.  Because I don't have some type of connection to twins, at least that I am aware of.

But yet, I have both the physical and psychological markers of a womb twin survivor: the teratoma/dermoid cyst nonsense, the insatiable need to be physically close to someone, platonic or romantic, the fear of abandonment and rejection, and the biggest one: constant occupation with the thought of death and dying.

At age 6, I honestly believed that I was going to die when I would become 29-years old.  Each year would pass, I would count down the years left before "I was going to die".  By the time I turned 30, I literally jumped for joy that I was still here.  However, the thoughts about how my funeral would look and what would people say in my eulogy and stuff stayed with me.

There's a difference between constantly thinking about how one will die versus suicidal ideation.  I don't want to kill myself, first and foremost.  Actually, I'm afraid to die.  I'm afraid that I won't be able to say goodbye to loved ones and such should someone successfully take my life away or I succumb to a quick and painless ailment.

So much for living to be Baba's age (currently at 93).  I will burn the world down should I make it to my 50th birthday.

I know what you are probably thinking: "hang in there, kid!"

Hang on to what?  Hope?  That cocksucker snuck out of Pandora's Box when I wasn't looking.  G-d?  I can't be that selfish; there are folks suffering much worse than I am who need G-d more so than I do.  Love?  Ha, I'll be lamenting with Mick Jagger on 7th Avenue about how neither of us could give it away.

When folks say shit like "hang in there" or "you're so strong" (and I am just as guilty), it feels like a cop out when it is said to me (I don't know what it sounds like when people hear it from me).

I would much rather be weak than strong.  Being strong is the biggest scam on the earth.

Being strong doesn't get you people coming up to you and giving you long hugs.

Being strong doesn't provide comforting words and feelings from people you love.

Being strong tells folks that I don't need to be coddled or given time for; somebody who appears to be in more dire need does.

Being strong means, more times than not, when you thinking about an escape from the overall torture chamber of pain, you are doing so alone.  No partner.  No pet.  No plant.  Nothing.

I'm fucking tired of "being strong."  When do I get to let my guard down, even for a while, just to rest and gather up as many spoons as possible?  When do I get to experience pleasure instead of this nonsense?  How long will it take before I do end up "being weak"?


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