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It’s my third birthday… as an orphan.
The woman who gave birth to me hasn’t acknowledged my birth since sometime around 1991. My daughters have their heads shoved up my ex’s ass so far, they’re encouraged not to acknowledge my existence. And my daddy, is of course, dead going on three years now.
I still remember that last birthday in 2012 just a few weeks before he suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead. I remember he had called me after my work to ask me to come over and watch music videos with him. I said no, that I wasn’t feeling up to being around people. Then he offered to come over to my house and drink a birthday beer with me. I was depressed about my life and said, ” no thanks daddy.”
Oh what I’d give to have that moment back right now!!!! That was going to be the last birthday anyone would be around to care it even was my birthday. Or worry that getting older was maybe sad for me. Well, my last birthday when anyone would really think of me at all.
My dad always took my daughters and I out to eat on my birthday. He’d usually get me my favorite perfume or something I loved! Gosh, I sure was lucky to have such an amazing father for all those years!
Growing up with mother, I’d almost always pretend to be sick on my birthday so I could stay home alone and cry and miss my dad while they all went out to eat.
I’ve pondered about that often as an adult. Wondering why I only felt safe to pretend to be sick on my birthdays. I always wanted to be alone so I could cry into my pillow and talk to God about sending my daddy to save me. I used to think because it was my birthday, God might actually hear me and grant my one birthday wish from every year…if I prayed really hard…
And somehow I never had the strength to fake a smile for mother on my birthday like the other 364 days. Somehow, it just seemed like the one fucking day a year when I should be allowed to feel whatever the hell I wanted to feel.. In the privacy of my bedroom, of course…pretending to be sick so no one had to “deal” with me having emotions.
… It makes me wonder. I guess mother wasn’t too awful, she would “let me” be sick every year on my birthday without yelling at me. I realize I DID feel “special” enough to her that she’d let me get away with that at least one day a year without repercussions. Somehow I always knew I only had this one day for that. As long as I kept completely to myself and cried quietly, she left me alone that day… But I got it for that day! I was allowed to stay in my room and miss my dad and talk to God about my real wishes….silently.
Now, I guess I can keep doing that every year without repercussions. 
So… I’m in my room tonight with my dog, openly missing my daddy, crying as much as I want, and wishing it was my last birthday… The last one I had before I became an orphan.

I confess. I am now taking antidepressants again. The “free fall” of unmedicated depression wasn’t any different than being medicated. And I’m still here. I’ve googled “overdosing on antidepressants” and realized that’s not really a viable option.

Plus, I happen to know just how much satisfaction my narcissist ex and narcissist mother would get out of my suicide. While simultaneously, of course, getting all the sympathy in the world for their tragic “loss”. While also having the satisfaction of knowing they both raped my soul and my life to the point that I couldn’t take any more.
Ugh..
Soooo… I guess it’s another day of antidepressants tomorrow. If anything, just to not give them the “sympathy card”. The thought of that disgusts me too much.
Those two elements combined mean I’ll probably be waking up to face another day tomorrow morning.
Happy last birthday to me.

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