It is my birthday and other ramblings.....
I am sitting in the dark in our office. I have a bottle of water and too many thoughts.
My birthday has long been a point of contention with me. I am stupid about it. When I was little my mom made a big deal out of it, which would have been great, but I always felt like I fell short of her expectations. She would have these elaborate celebrations planned out and two people would show up. Money wasted. Disappointment.
Eventually I stopped feeling like I failed her by not being popular enough. I came to accept that I don't have to be everyone's favorite person to be worthy of living. (Therapy is your friend.) At any rate, this year I have been struggling, again, because of how much my life has changed; what I thought I would have at this point in my life and what I have are different. I am different. Harder, and softer, all in one year.
Adam has made a point of hyping up this year's event. He has encouraged me to "do something" for my birthday this year. I am reluctant. Last year I got a hurricane and I got to see my daughter try to take her first steps for my birthday. What can top that? Right?
This year I have had birthday sushi and WAY too much booze. I have good memories and I am positive about the actual day, despite being afraid I would freak out.
Tomorrow Adam has taken the day off. He wants me to pick an activity, but I am scared. I am scared to spend money. I am scared to try too hard and have it fall apart. I have waited for my present and I am thinking we might go eat breakfast somewhere. I am hoping that when I wake up tomorrow I won't feel what I feel right now. I won't hold back. I won't be scared to be happy about something that I won't ever be able to celebrate for Mazzy.
It has been long enough that I am starting to feel seriously guilty that I am mourning my daughter because I am afraid that I am holding other people back from moving on. If I were more eloquent, or brave, I would write a book about the reality of mourning a child. The cliches and the bullshit that they feed you are pointless. Maybe all grief is like that. I don't know. I just know me and this life and this year.
I think about women from before; before medicine and before air conditioning and what that was like. I think about the women who had still births and children that died in the first year, or the seventh, and not just one child, but several and I want to be that strong. I want to be accepting in the way that they had to be. Babies died. It was what happened and you had another, and another, until one of them lived long enough to bury you.
I started to write more, but I don't want to take you to that place, just yet. I am sure it is coming, though.
My birthday has long been a point of contention with me. I am stupid about it. When I was little my mom made a big deal out of it, which would have been great, but I always felt like I fell short of her expectations. She would have these elaborate celebrations planned out and two people would show up. Money wasted. Disappointment.
Eventually I stopped feeling like I failed her by not being popular enough. I came to accept that I don't have to be everyone's favorite person to be worthy of living. (Therapy is your friend.) At any rate, this year I have been struggling, again, because of how much my life has changed; what I thought I would have at this point in my life and what I have are different. I am different. Harder, and softer, all in one year.
Adam has made a point of hyping up this year's event. He has encouraged me to "do something" for my birthday this year. I am reluctant. Last year I got a hurricane and I got to see my daughter try to take her first steps for my birthday. What can top that? Right?
This year I have had birthday sushi and WAY too much booze. I have good memories and I am positive about the actual day, despite being afraid I would freak out.
Tomorrow Adam has taken the day off. He wants me to pick an activity, but I am scared. I am scared to spend money. I am scared to try too hard and have it fall apart. I have waited for my present and I am thinking we might go eat breakfast somewhere. I am hoping that when I wake up tomorrow I won't feel what I feel right now. I won't hold back. I won't be scared to be happy about something that I won't ever be able to celebrate for Mazzy.
It has been long enough that I am starting to feel seriously guilty that I am mourning my daughter because I am afraid that I am holding other people back from moving on. If I were more eloquent, or brave, I would write a book about the reality of mourning a child. The cliches and the bullshit that they feed you are pointless. Maybe all grief is like that. I don't know. I just know me and this life and this year.
I think about women from before; before medicine and before air conditioning and what that was like. I think about the women who had still births and children that died in the first year, or the seventh, and not just one child, but several and I want to be that strong. I want to be accepting in the way that they had to be. Babies died. It was what happened and you had another, and another, until one of them lived long enough to bury you.
I started to write more, but I don't want to take you to that place, just yet. I am sure it is coming, though.
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