Another Birthday

I haven’t posted in a while yet again – what a surprise, right? – but as I lie on the couch crying and feeling the urge to cut, I figured I should jot my thoughts down instead of cutting my arms because I’ve made a silent promise to myself that I would never ever do it again.

I think I owe it to my baby. I don’t care if I owe it to myself, but I already feel bad my son has a mommy whose arms people stare. He doesn’t deserve it. I think it kind of would break my heart if I was someone else and saw it on TV for example, a kid with a mom who cuts herself.

Kind of like, when I watch news clips on Facebook where the little kids are stuck in cars with their druggie parents passed out in the front. First thing I think about is, that kid doesn’t deserve it. So I try to look at myself as an outsider and try care for my baby in a way that I would be proud of if I was an outside looking in.

I haven’t cried since the day he was born. Wow. 10 months. I haven’t felt this lonely either. The fact that I barely sleep and I’m busy with him 24/7 shields me from my negative thoughts.

I just can’t shake them today. I’m always really depressed on my birthday. Another year always rolls by with all this shit that makes me really sad and depressed.

When I was little it was the abuse and my dad hitting my mom and the violence and the sadness and feeling sorry for my mom and hating my mom too. How it was her fault he was like that.

Then later on it was being bullied and being alone on my birthday and how enough people didn’t show me love and make it a special day for me.

I always wanted magic, fanfare, big gifts and parties and surprises and rose-colored glasses to see the world through.

And it never came.

I invited many, many people to celebrate my 16th with me and one person showed up and made excuses and left.

In college I got drunk and cut my arms and wanted to kill myself.

I always wanna kill myself on my birthday. Somehow it feels nostalgic.

I probably feel like that too, today, but I know those days are over where I could indulge in my shitty feelings and feeling sorry for myself and feeling like a victim and being able to get drunk and cut and take pills and plan how I’d kill myself.

I have a child now. He needs me. I need him, too. I am overwhelmed about being a mother 99% of the time and wonder what the hell happened to the person who I was, but sometimes I look at him and he looks and me and smiles and I feel like maybe one day I’ll love this thing here.

He does deserve a good life and happiness.

I’m still breastfeeding so no getting drunk for me. He likes the milk. I feel like I’m a worthy human being, keeping this little nugget here alive with my white gold.

Ahh. Sadness. Tears. Utter loneliness and emptiness. Heart-breaking feelings of loss and worthlessness.

Lots of emotions. At least I feel something, right?


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