Happy Fucking Birthday to Me
Baby, here we are again
Yet another birthday that was absolutely shit
My birthday was last week, and for as long as I can remember, my birthdays have been a mixed bag of dicks. I wasn’t disappointed. I’ve been either sick with some respiratory/sinus issue, or my ex would get drunk and stupid. Like the time he drunkenly announced in the middle of a water park resort that he was bisexual in front of families and their children.
Great timing, just perfect. If only you had seen the people scurry away.
This time, this time, I blame myself. I allowed it to happen because I trusted someone to come through and actually do something for me.
My boyfriend promised to order something nice for dinner, and I believed him. We had to work during the day. After we got home from that, lo and behold, as usual, he fell asleep. Three hours later, as he pours himself a bowl of cereal for dinner, he casually asks, “Did you eat?”
“Umm, no, I didn’t eat.”
He ended up cooking me a dry ass piece of chicken that I had to choke down. I hid in the bathroom for a bit. Not that it was really hiding, I was cleaning my face and getting ready for bed even though I didn’t want him to know how upset I was about dinner.
“Are you mad at me?” He asked the next day.
“Why would I be mad at you?” I responded too calmly because I think it probably scared him.
I honestly am not mad at him. I’m upset at myself for believing that he’d actually follow through with his promise. A calm and angry woman is a deadly combination.
He proceeded to blame me for me not having what I wanted. I didn’t tell him what I wanted. Even though I had supplied him with a few ideas, I did not explicitly tell him I wanted this or that for my birthday. So, it’s my fault I got a dry, rubbery chicken breast for dinner.
What do I want?
Okay. I want a lot of things.
I want him to care about my feelings.
I want him to do nice things for me because he wants to, not because I told him or asked him to do them.
I want him to touch me, hug me, kiss me when we aren’t in public. It’s funny how he can put his hand on my back and stroke it while we walk through the store but never lay a finger on me in private.
I want hot, passionate sex too, but he doesn’t want me to ask for that now, does he? No.
I am entering into another phase of my self-love journey. I am by nature a caregiver. I believe in being other-centered. In other words, I want to mother the shit out of most people. This is probably why I end up with the men I do.
Shadow work
Every day I try to take a step forward to understanding it is not selfish to take care of me. I’m currently working on my shadow work. It’s called shadow work because it’s the shit you shove into the shadows and don’t deal with generally because it’s too painful.
I recently started a letter of apology to myself. One of my apologies in my letter was forgiving myself for allowing others to use me. I have hated myself for years because of this. It’s not like I don’t have a backbone either, because I will speak my mind. I just don’t think I deserve happiness, so I allow myself to be used.
He is right. It is my fault for not getting what I wanted. When I care for my needs first, it will nourish my soul… right? Next birthday I will order my food. If he’s lucky, I’ll not be too selfish and get him something.
Or he can be happy with his bowl of cereal. If he didn’t tell me what he wanted, that is.
This birthday was shit too —
