I lost my happy today.
Its probably just that time of year. May ushers in with it all my demons, who hold a month long fiesta in my head. And that’s the only fiesta that a holdin’ near me, even though its my birthday on the 21st. Which is probably why I hate May. May taught me 10 years ago, and reminds me every year since, that no one cares enough to celebrate my existence.
That may sound a tad dramatic, but stick with me here. My tragedies are terribly important to me.
I’m the designated party planner in my house: I bake the cakes, I buy the balloons, I suggest and organize the presents, I shepherd the family together, I make someone’s special day special. Celebrations are really important, particularly the one’s that have nothing to do with an achievement. I mean, if you only got people singing for you when you got a job, or a promotion, or a husband, there would have been no music in my house for the last 5 years. But birthdays…… Congratulations, you survived! Here’s a cake and a customized song! In a world where we’re mostly just marching along with blinders on, birthdays are a great way of grabbing a little joy along the road, an excuse to look around and smell the flowers.
Flowers are very important to me. As are balloons. And I have made that blatantly obvious over the years. Yet, there are no flowers on my bedside table on the 21st, no balloons decking the halls, no cake on the table. My mother tends to slip me a present or two, but apparently my existence isn’t enough of a cause for joy to merit a family gathering. I’m sure a lot of people are loved as little as I am, but I cannot believe those people love like I do. I love, and love, and love, and I do not hear the echo. I don’t want expensive presents, or a full on party. Just flowers, and balloons, and thoughtful tokens of appreciation. A volume of poetry, a funny newspaper clipping, a card so personal it could only have been for me. It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy. Which is why it hurts so much that no one can even make that much of an effort.
I had an interview today, the only light on my darkening horizon. I was supposed to study for it, but my sister was having a really tough day yesterday. She drove over, plonked down on my bed, and late into the night I comforted her and listened to her and to my father as he woke up all his friends to help his little girl. I couldn’t study, I couldn’t sleep, and naturally I couldn’t ace the interview. So today, I was having a really tough day. She could not make it over, she sent me a text saying it was okay, I would be fine. A text. I realize she was not having the best day, that coming over to sit with me would be inconvenient, but it wasn’t convenient for me to leave work the day before either. When someone is a priority for you, you don’t care about minor inconveniences. I am clearly not a priority. But she is my priority, and that’s the worst part of it.
Luckily, I won’t have to deal with my misplaced priorities on the 21st. Remember how I have no job, and was on the verge of clinical depression for the last four months? Well, my father decided to make lemonade out of the lemon life had handed him in my guise, and bought me a ticket to go see my sister. She’s estranged from my parents, and they want her desperately to make contact. So they’re sending me, the daughter who puts everyone else first, a sister whisperer if you will, to make her realize how much they love and miss her. Of course, the fact that its the toughest time of the year for me, that I am a nervous wreck myself, and it just might not be in my best interests to advocate parental love when the said father has not even deigned to drive me ten minutes to the gym in the last 6 months has not occurred to him.
I’m going. Ofcourse I am. I love her. I love him. I need them to be happy. It just so happens that my mother and I are the only people in the universe who care as far as my happiness is concerned. That sucks for me, but lets face it, its not such a tremendous problem. Oscar Wilde, the man I know was meant for me but sent in the wrong century, said that the secret of life is to enjoy the pleasure of being terribly, terribly deceived. So I will try and remember that these non-reciprocal relationships in my life, all the unrequited love, sets me up beautifully for my martyr complex! And maybe one day, I will manage to inspire love in someone, who will be there for me on weekdays. Till then, on my birthday, I will take a train to London, and watch the Woman in Black alone. I’m rather looking forward to being scared, it’s been a while since I have been anything other than sad or resigned. As for now, here’s one last wallow in my pool of self pity
i am a beggar always
who begs in your mind
(slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking
with a sign on his
BLIND) yes i
am this person of whom somehow
you are never wholly rid (and who
does not ask for more than
just enough dreams to
after all, kid
you might as well
toss him a few thoughts
a little love preferably,
anything which you can’t
pass off on other people: for
the he will maybe (hearing something
fall into his hat)go wandering
after it with fingers;till having
what was thrown away
taptaptaps out of your brain, hopes, life
to(carefully turning a
corner)never bother you any more