Some man lived alone in a cave without much human contact for several months in order to prove that time is an invention. Unsurprisingly, that turned out to be completely unnecessary. The fact that clock hands move in a circle implies time’s infinite nature, which is why it often comes with the disclaimer of relativity. Infinity removes the possibility of hard starts and stops, and boldly asks the question: How does one perceive (or not perceive) the passage of time in the absence of all relativity, or, in the case of adopted humans, in the absence of all those to whom we are related? That very question, I believe, is the one our Caveman actually answered. What it seems he learned is that sequestered from our cosmic touchstones, our requirements for physical existence change considerably. The need for food and sleep become secondary. The here-and-not threads of the time-space continuum bend like taffy, warping the fabric of our sensory input.

As I understand it, Caveman had some limited but “daily” interactions with other misguided individuals keeping precise track of “time” on the surface, and could have been hoisted up to the woes of the general population if he dinged a little bell. (If only there were safe words in adoption). Instead, we are stuck in the experiment of a synthetic relationship.

In this analogy, adoptive parents are aspartame: It doesn’t taste or feel right, and you know for sure it’s not the same as real beet sugar, and there’s a good chance it will eat your gray matter like a sack of Goldfish crackers, which is why it comes with a warning. Adoptive parents don’t come with a warning (though I’m definitely not saying they shouldn’t!), and they still put pink packets of poison in their coffee because they need the dope hits, need to believe, yet stubbornly refuse to wake up.

Only two frames of time exist for me: before and after. Before I was conceived, after I was conceived. Before I was born, and after. Before I left the hospital, and after I came home. There is no denouement, just the same goddamn story I’ve been telling all this time. Endlessly ensnaring storylines, more taffy, fibbing through gritted teeth as I introduce my “parents,” disguising more lies as truths. Always rehearsing the story, always looking for my mark, following strange adults at picnics while they ate macaroni salad and pretended it was normal for children to talk like pre-recorded TV commercials. 

Where does it end? When is it over? I’m running low on bread, and therefore crumbs, and will soon have to choose between feeding myself and finding my way back to the place where I was supposedly born. I must keep telling new stories, creating new Me’s—if I re-read what I’ve written over all this time, I fear I will realize that my stories have disappeared, that the ink is gone, its indelibility contingent upon the legitimacy of the truths it spelled. Mountains of pages, blank sheets flurrying infinitely, my exhaustion quickly overcoming me as I give chase. Stories measured in lined paper wetted by ink, and sometimes blood, and the few salty tears I dared shed. Days with strangers in foster care measured in the weight of a newborn cradling her own burdensome existence. Nights incarcerated measured in razor-drawn tallies between my wrist and the soft flesh at the inner bend of my elbow. Ages measured in birthdays missed, milestones skipped across bottomless lakes. Heartbreaks measured in girls who never were, women who will never be.