Thread: Chaos Theory: Causing Hahvoc.

Re Chaos Theory Causing Hahvoc. A little Hahvoc was born Now, be patient with me. You might not want to hear this because of how fluffy and cutesy it could turn out to be, but bear with me. I do not recall my birth as most people don't, but if I try hard enough, I have this flash of grasping hands and little cries being pulled from me. I wanted out and I wasn't going to stop my incessant wailing until I was free. At least, that is what my mother told me when I inquired about how I was born. My mother had to have C-section to keep me alive, being a miracle in general she conceived me to begin with. As the doctors set about their work that they had done countless times, they paused and listened. The beeps of the machines couldn't drown out my cries for freedom, or needing fresh air. I guess I was done with whole 'womb' business and wanted my slice of independence. I cried and cried whilst inside the cradle of protection that had kept me safe and living for a little under nine months. And then, just like that, I was free! My cries stopped the moment light hit my eyes, my mother had me with a smile and light laugh. So, unlike most people, I didn't come crying and screaming into this world while naked! Oh, no! I was happy to be naked and alive outside that dark sanctuary! If I had had the conscious I have now, in that younger form of me, I probably would have bitched at someone to stop staring like a pedophile and clothe me. Well, my demands were met even if I had no idea what they were and I was safely tucked in a blanket and held against my mother with toothless smiles. Honestly, I was probably the happiest little drool monster. But it wasn't all sunshine and rays. Because of me and yet not because of me, my mother was no longer able to bear any more children. When I think back on it, I sometimes wonder- what might have happened to my mother if she had never had me? Or if I hadn't been able to live? When I spoke to my mother, she gave me this assuring smile that since I was here now, I shouldn't think like that. But I know she thought about it, too. Her doctor had been against me being conceived, but she had gotten pregnant and was fine, so that little misstep was over and done with. I was living and breathing and happy to be all snuggly-snuggly with my mother and her life-giving breasts. That's right, I went there. During the next three years after I was born, my mother started to get sick and my father and mother got a divorce. I don't remember much of it, but by age four I had a clue. Daddy kept going away a lot because of the army and he wasn't allowed to be alone with Mommy. I was a daddy's girl and a mommy's rebel when I was little. I'm still a rebel, hell yeah, but Daddy's little princess? No longer. I'm probably one of the few kids who can boast that the first time they got grounded was age four. And for a week, no less. I wasn't allowed to leave the yard and my dog, Ginger, was trained to bark whenever I left the yard. I still wonder how it only ever happened to me! And no matter how many times I begged the bloody traitor to keep his trap shut, I was always caught. I still wonder how my grandfather taught him that. I'm rather curious to know. Back on topic! My parents went through a rather rough divorce and I was told tidbits of stories of how I told my dad to sod off, more or less in kiddy language, because he made my mother cry. I took the phone from my Nana, and yelled at him, I am never living with you! You made my mommy cry! And hung up on him. Score one for little me. My nana said she had never been so shocked in all her life. And thought it was still funny as hell. Like the time I had decided I would be addressed as Sparkles instead of my actual name. I still have no idea why! And if you call me it, I will eat you. But it wasn't all laughs and sunshine, as I said before. I still remember when Daddy said we were going to see Mommy in the hospital. I didn't know why she was there. He said she was really sick but wanted to see us. My dad was a rather manipulative and abusing bastard when we were young. What he hadn't told us was that my mom was very, VERY ill and had staples in her stomach because she had had to get her uterus removed lest she die. I was probably almost five or so and it's one of the only memories I had during that time of my life. The halls had been white and pristine, the people were pretty even when they looked ill. To me, people were beautiful in their own ways and everyone was a good person because I could make them smile or laugh. I always loved making people happy, even when I was little. I had wanted to run down the halls, my coat feeling too tight and crowded when inside the place. My hair flew into my face when I started to walk faster, my brother tagging along, trying to keep me in his sights. My dad told us to slow down, but I would have none of that. He told us what room it was, and even I knew my numbers by then. I saw it and ran into the room only to stop. I still remember how she looked, so tiny and fragile on that hospital bed. From my fragile point of view, I thought my mother was going to die. I recall the light beep of a machine and the way she breathed so lightly, with a little rasp to her voice. She had tried to sit up and smile, but only able to smile at us before she looked to my father like she was going to murder him. I went to her side and took her hand. All I remember after that is that someone was stroking my hair and I was crying. Whether it was my brother, my mother, or my Nana, I don't remember. My dad was getting reamed by either my mom, John--who later became my stepfather--or the nurse. Overall, hospital visits and doctors, especially male doctors, make me nervous.