These Fading Flowers

In a couple of days I’ll be turning 38. That I can even say that is unbelievable, since I’m supposed to be dead. Ask any of my relatives.

Life in a children’s home is similar to life in prison. You have no one, and no support network. You cannot trust. You cannot let your guard down. You cannot sleep.

You are an animal, PERIOD.

I entered the Youth Services System at a VERY young age…But not so young that I couldn’t remember the good things about how “Real” families lived from when my mother was alive.

The lives of other kids were a great curiosity for me. I always wondered what they went home to, what was waiting for them, what they did on weekends, how soundly they must have slept. I doubt many of them scattered broken glass on their windowsills so nobody could climb in, or laid several plywood squares with nails in them face-up on the floor so they could sleep at night without being raped or beaten.

Once on the bus to school, I overheard a girl whining about what assholes her parents were because they had punished her for something stupid she had done, and all I could think was “You fucking bitch. You have something that I would kill people to have, and you don’t care. You don’t deserve them”.

I never really wanted to be adopted, but I did want the chance to see what living in a real home (not "house") was like. And Birthdays were an especially attractive enigma to me. I was always getting invited to them, and when I was younger I wanted to have one too.

But we have a saying in the Youth Services: Time stands still in here. Time moves on out there. You aren’t part of the “outside world”, and their rules don’t apply to you. Time becomes a noise in the background, dates become unimportant. So as the years went by, enough holidays passed unacknowledged that I stopped bothering to try altogether. Like everyone else. Soon, I was avoiding any reference to holidays and special times in my life altogether, and became vocally critical of others who happened to wish me a happy birthday, Merry Christmas or any special time of year.

After enough time of this occurring, it was a reflexive response as I got older. When I finally left the children’s home I didn’t have any idea how to go about living my own life. Everything seemed unreal, and people were an oddity. I didn’t have ANY recommendable social skills, I didn’t even know how to hold a civil conversation. And after realizing what it would take to change that, I quickly decided that I didn’t WANT to open up to anyone. So I did what all brokenhearted kids do when they need to wall themselves off: I kept myself apart from everyone by denying myself pleasure. I lived my first few years of emancipation much the same way I lived in the orphanage, Christmas was just another cold day in winter, my birthday came and went without a twitch from me.

Things are, of course, much different now. My wife Caren (A long-suffering woman who is far too good for me) has bent over backward to make me a part of humanity again, and I have a wonderful group of friends who have performed all manner of arcane stunts to find my birthdate. My drivers license has been stolen so many times, I have simply given up and just let the damn thing be done. I have even, on two occasions, scored a cake, one made from scratch.

Of course, some people take it too far in the opposite direction. WHAT THE HELL IS THE MARTIAL ARTS BIRTHDAY LIST AND WHICH ONE OF YOU FREAKS PUT ME ON IT?!?!?

*Ahem*

I must admit, I was very surprised when a student walked into class last year with a cake and announced to the class it was my birthday. When I asked how he found out, he told me of this great site which lists various Martial Arts instructors’ birthday stats. Since I know I didn’t put my info on there, I’m a little curious as to who did.

My birthday is February 25th, this Sunday. It’s safe to say that I won’t fly into a rage if you wish me happy birthday.