The Wound and the Light


It’s already over before it ever began.

And I’ll get another one in a year.  And who knows, maybe I’ll start bleeding though I shouldn’t and all of a sudden this sourness will be justified.  This irritation with everything, this imposible itch and there’s this odd feeling of having been forgotten which isn’t true at all.

It is probably worse to fight it.  I said this year would be the year that the birthday would not need to mean anything because the whole year is imbued with meaning and purpose and evolution and this “love affair with myself” that the shaman prescribed.

And I have been trying to get there.  Like with legitimate focus and with not fucking around or giving up. For twenty-three straight days.  And it’s built this awkward sort of hope that I am progressing to a point where maybe somebody would decide to ring my metaphoric bell and say hello.  But all day today I thought I looked like bulging, award, wrinkly, aging, dying, stringy, hateful shit. Obviously, that’s probably not true either.  Probably.

I think my blood sugar is off because work gave me a birthday brunch with quiche and chocolate and a Diet Dr. Pepper (I did not drink, only had one little chocolate mousse cup thing) and some grapes.  I was really hoping we could go out and I could have a taco salad or…I don’t know, I had a plan in mind to avoid having today involve carbs. I don’t feel like I destroyed the diet since I tried to back off and I’m going to make something low-carb for dinner and it is okay.   And I wanted a non-event birthday. And it is.  I wanted to not get hung up on it.  I did things to avoid getting hung up on the usual crap and then, things immediately went pear-shaped and imperfect and they sang happy birthday to me with this spread on the table and cards and everyone was diving in and I ate, too.

I don’t know.  It’s just stuff that’s begging to be dealt with in my head and I don’t know how to do it.  Or doing it would require enormous personal upheaval that’s pretty hard to commit to when you know your blood sugar’s fucked and you want emotional succor and you feel appreciative, embarrassed, and angry all at once.  Where is that therapist again?

This is just how I am every single January 23.  Every single year.  Easier to accept than to hope for sudden alteration.  It is time for a video game, and to make my food and to endure my own bullshit.  Because in a week, the birthday angst will be gone and the effort will need to be back and that’s it.  Ship-shape and fancy free.

Or something.  It’ll be less than ideal, but it will keep going, which is my bottom line interest.

As per usual, I want it both ways.

I think I just need to work on my story and

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