MaeM
Songster
- Dec 9, 2020
- 351
- 1,117
- 216
It’s 7 a.m. I wake up to the raging car motors and the rushed steps of people going to work. Living in a busy street, with your bedroom’s window against the sidewalk, you can’t really hear much more at that time of the day. Or at any time of the day.
But at 7 a.m., it’s pretty clear what I am NOT hearing —my rooster’s crow. It’s okay, I’ve been here for most part of the year and I’m used to not hearing my rooster’s crow anymore.
Why do I still think about him, though? As time goes by, I can hardly remember what he sounded like. I hope he can forgive me for this; he always wanted to be heard, for which he used to crow in my bedroom’s window. My true bedroom’s window, that is; the one who isn’t on a busy street, but in my parents’ house —a place I don’t romanticize but a place I grew up and raised my chickens in.
It’s 2 p.m. now. I’ve worked and my partner has cooked. We’ve eaten our lunch and it’s my turn to wash the dishes. That’s when my flock comes back to my mind. Do I really have to throw all these table scraps in the trash? Can’t somebody eat them?
I look through the kitchen’s window and there is no grass, no sun, no chickens. Can wild birds eat salad? “Just throw it,” my partner says, “nobody will eat that salad.”
As I head to the trash can, I think of how much my chickens would’ve enjoyed this.
I would have walked out of the kitchen with the bowl in my hands. They would have seen me and they would have harassed me until I had poured the bowl’s contents to the soil. They would have fought each other in what I once called 'the Hunger Games.’ The winner would have gotten the best slice of tomato and run away with it. The loser —usually my special needs hen, Bianca— would have stared at me insistently, waiting for me to give her a consolation prize, one that I would’ve previously saved for her anyway.
I would've waited for the other chickens to be distracted, fed her the extra tomato slice that I would’ve kept in my hand, and watched her as she ate it, just to make sure that no one was going to steal it from her.
Then I would’ve asked everyone if they liked the treats and they would have made happy chicken noises.
Then I would’ve come back inside and kept up with my work with a smile on my face and my soul immersed in fulfillment and joy.
It’s 5 p.m. now. I’m on the computer, writing with a resigned countenance as my partner gets in and out of the room, grabbing things here and there as he prepares himself to leave for work.
It’s going to be a long evening without him, but not as long as an afternoon without my chickens, my pets, my therapy.
I have Meniere’s disease in both of my ears. This is an inner ear disorder that affects hearing and balance. Due to this chronic, incurable condition, I can hear the sound of silence —an elegant way of saying that I have tinnitus, a continuous ringing in my ears that drives me crazy at times.
But, you know?, there’s no tinnitus when I’m around those animals. There’s no depression, no anxiety, no fear of permanent hearing loss. It’s just them and me, the softness of the grass, the caress of the wind.
The problem is the other people. I think I should call them “family”, but that word is dissonant for me - and I’m not talking about my hearing condition, which may distort sound on occasion. I’m talking about the basic rules of our lives as highly developed social beings.
A family is built on love, and love doesn’t hurt.
Love doesn’t scream at you, doesn’t insult you, doesn’t make you scared and traumatize you. Doesn't push your buttons knowing that stress can trigger or worsen your symptoms.
Hell, it doesn’t give you baby chicks as a present because it doesn’t know how to say ‘I’m sorry.’
“Your dad realized that you were gaining independence. You got a job in spite of your condition, you turned this shed into a home for yourself,” a friend of mine told me, with a little, yellow chick in his hand, “but he knows that you don’t want to stop there, that you have an opportunity to move to the city now that you can earn money for yourself. That’s why you had an argument last week, right?”
I nodded in confusion, unable to understand what this had to do with the cute chicks I was showing to him.
“Can’t you see it?,” he added, “he brought you these chicks because if you have these animals in your care, you can’t move to an apartment in the capital city.”
Boom.
Yep, that sounded like something that my father would do.
But I had already built the coop. I had already bought the feeders and waterers. I had named those chicks, posted pictures of them online, and called them ‘my babies’. And it’s not as though I could’ve taken them back to the hatchery, they would have not received them back.
Rehome them? Did anyone else around me have the time, the money, and the space to raise them? And did they want to see them grow as much as I did?
So I kept them. I saw them lose their fluff and develop feathers. I experienced the usual doubts about their sexes as their feet, combs, and wattles matured.
Their first sun bath. Their first dirt bath. Their first treat - watermelon.
It's 8 p.m now. I still haven't had dinner and I don't really know what to cook. All the potential meals that come to my mind require eggs, and I don't have any.
How is it that I got used to not hearing my rooster's crow but I haven't gotten used to buying eggs at the market?
I sigh. Life without chickens is harder than I thought it'd be.
I kept them and paid the price when everything went to hell.
I never wanted to leave them. But if I had chosen to stay that day, perhaps I wouldn't have had another chance of getting out from the circle of violence I was in.
Being away from them is, by far, the most difficult thing of the new life I’ve been forced into.
It's 10 p.m. now. I haven't eaten, but I'm not hungry anyway. The room is silent, as silent as my tinnitus allows it to be. No one is yelling and I know I'm safer than I ever was; yet, I'm not happy, and that makes me feel guilty. My partner and his family have done so much to help me get back on my feet… I'm grateful, but maybe my face doesn't show it, and that would be so, so unfair to them.
I'm the end, they're just chickens, right? I know I should move on. And yet, every second I spend away from them is a second I regret. The feeling of loss is comprehensive, like a bunch of clouds reuniting in the sky to form a storm. I'm grieving my family, my home, my pets, and all the positive aspects of the life I led.
Some of these things can be retrieved. My partner and his family are my family now. Someday I will be able to rent, buy, or build something bigger and comfier than my parents’ shed.
But my pets are irreplaceable. And they're running out of time.
An Infectious Bronchitis virus outbreak has already taken two of them, and I feel like I could lose another one at any time.
Or maybe I've already lost them, and I'm just refusing to let them go.
***
I wrote this in a journal and I thought I'd share. Let me know if this isn't the right subforum as it is related to chickens but also to "family life".
But at 7 a.m., it’s pretty clear what I am NOT hearing —my rooster’s crow. It’s okay, I’ve been here for most part of the year and I’m used to not hearing my rooster’s crow anymore.
Why do I still think about him, though? As time goes by, I can hardly remember what he sounded like. I hope he can forgive me for this; he always wanted to be heard, for which he used to crow in my bedroom’s window. My true bedroom’s window, that is; the one who isn’t on a busy street, but in my parents’ house —a place I don’t romanticize but a place I grew up and raised my chickens in.
It’s 2 p.m. now. I’ve worked and my partner has cooked. We’ve eaten our lunch and it’s my turn to wash the dishes. That’s when my flock comes back to my mind. Do I really have to throw all these table scraps in the trash? Can’t somebody eat them?
I look through the kitchen’s window and there is no grass, no sun, no chickens. Can wild birds eat salad? “Just throw it,” my partner says, “nobody will eat that salad.”
As I head to the trash can, I think of how much my chickens would’ve enjoyed this.
I would have walked out of the kitchen with the bowl in my hands. They would have seen me and they would have harassed me until I had poured the bowl’s contents to the soil. They would have fought each other in what I once called 'the Hunger Games.’ The winner would have gotten the best slice of tomato and run away with it. The loser —usually my special needs hen, Bianca— would have stared at me insistently, waiting for me to give her a consolation prize, one that I would’ve previously saved for her anyway.
I would've waited for the other chickens to be distracted, fed her the extra tomato slice that I would’ve kept in my hand, and watched her as she ate it, just to make sure that no one was going to steal it from her.
Then I would’ve asked everyone if they liked the treats and they would have made happy chicken noises.
Then I would’ve come back inside and kept up with my work with a smile on my face and my soul immersed in fulfillment and joy.
It’s 5 p.m. now. I’m on the computer, writing with a resigned countenance as my partner gets in and out of the room, grabbing things here and there as he prepares himself to leave for work.
It’s going to be a long evening without him, but not as long as an afternoon without my chickens, my pets, my therapy.
I have Meniere’s disease in both of my ears. This is an inner ear disorder that affects hearing and balance. Due to this chronic, incurable condition, I can hear the sound of silence —an elegant way of saying that I have tinnitus, a continuous ringing in my ears that drives me crazy at times.
But, you know?, there’s no tinnitus when I’m around those animals. There’s no depression, no anxiety, no fear of permanent hearing loss. It’s just them and me, the softness of the grass, the caress of the wind.
The problem is the other people. I think I should call them “family”, but that word is dissonant for me - and I’m not talking about my hearing condition, which may distort sound on occasion. I’m talking about the basic rules of our lives as highly developed social beings.
A family is built on love, and love doesn’t hurt.
Love doesn’t scream at you, doesn’t insult you, doesn’t make you scared and traumatize you. Doesn't push your buttons knowing that stress can trigger or worsen your symptoms.
Hell, it doesn’t give you baby chicks as a present because it doesn’t know how to say ‘I’m sorry.’
“Your dad realized that you were gaining independence. You got a job in spite of your condition, you turned this shed into a home for yourself,” a friend of mine told me, with a little, yellow chick in his hand, “but he knows that you don’t want to stop there, that you have an opportunity to move to the city now that you can earn money for yourself. That’s why you had an argument last week, right?”
I nodded in confusion, unable to understand what this had to do with the cute chicks I was showing to him.
“Can’t you see it?,” he added, “he brought you these chicks because if you have these animals in your care, you can’t move to an apartment in the capital city.”
Boom.
Yep, that sounded like something that my father would do.
But I had already built the coop. I had already bought the feeders and waterers. I had named those chicks, posted pictures of them online, and called them ‘my babies’. And it’s not as though I could’ve taken them back to the hatchery, they would have not received them back.
Rehome them? Did anyone else around me have the time, the money, and the space to raise them? And did they want to see them grow as much as I did?
So I kept them. I saw them lose their fluff and develop feathers. I experienced the usual doubts about their sexes as their feet, combs, and wattles matured.
Their first sun bath. Their first dirt bath. Their first treat - watermelon.
It's 8 p.m now. I still haven't had dinner and I don't really know what to cook. All the potential meals that come to my mind require eggs, and I don't have any.
How is it that I got used to not hearing my rooster's crow but I haven't gotten used to buying eggs at the market?
I sigh. Life without chickens is harder than I thought it'd be.
I kept them and paid the price when everything went to hell.
I never wanted to leave them. But if I had chosen to stay that day, perhaps I wouldn't have had another chance of getting out from the circle of violence I was in.
Being away from them is, by far, the most difficult thing of the new life I’ve been forced into.
It's 10 p.m. now. I haven't eaten, but I'm not hungry anyway. The room is silent, as silent as my tinnitus allows it to be. No one is yelling and I know I'm safer than I ever was; yet, I'm not happy, and that makes me feel guilty. My partner and his family have done so much to help me get back on my feet… I'm grateful, but maybe my face doesn't show it, and that would be so, so unfair to them.
I'm the end, they're just chickens, right? I know I should move on. And yet, every second I spend away from them is a second I regret. The feeling of loss is comprehensive, like a bunch of clouds reuniting in the sky to form a storm. I'm grieving my family, my home, my pets, and all the positive aspects of the life I led.
Some of these things can be retrieved. My partner and his family are my family now. Someday I will be able to rent, buy, or build something bigger and comfier than my parents’ shed.
But my pets are irreplaceable. And they're running out of time.
An Infectious Bronchitis virus outbreak has already taken two of them, and I feel like I could lose another one at any time.
Or maybe I've already lost them, and I'm just refusing to let them go.
***
I wrote this in a journal and I thought I'd share. Let me know if this isn't the right subforum as it is related to chickens but also to "family life".
