My birthday is this week.
I was looking through some old posts here and noticed a pattern. For the past two years, I have never posted in the month of September. Until now.
I don't know exactly what that means. I want it to mean that I'm stronger. I want it to mean that I'm healing.
I despise my birthday. It celebrates the cruelest of jokes. The day I was born into that family. If you can call them that.
But as my daughter has grown, one of her very favorite things is to celebrate a birthday. I have had to grit my teeth and smile because it's certainly not her fault that I don't enjoy marking the day I was born.
And then there's my husband. Sans one year that he forgot; he likes to be extravagant. I don't care for extravagant anything.
This year feels different. I still don't want the fanfare or gifts but I'm at some sort of peace with the day. My memories of years before are still hell but I'm not drowning in their depressing sorrow either.
Am I happy? Not really. I feel grief well up from my hurting heart.
I am also alive and that was no small feat. Dead before 30. A "doctor" spoke it. And I believed it. But somewhere along the way I learned to fight.
It hasn't been easy. It's still not easy. But I also have a sense of pride to have fought and won.
I can't say that I'm always glad to be alive. But I survived and that has to count for something.
This year I choose to celebrate survival.
“Shall I Crucify Your King?” #UNITE Linky
22 hours ago