You are probably reading this headline and thinking "Really Megan?" - Hear me out. I don't need the validation that someone opened up the Facebook app, got the notification that it's my birthday, and actually took the time to text out "Happy Birthday."
This post is specifically targeting one, maybe three people. The people who I am sure will wake up on Tuesday, November 6th and know that 26 years ago I was born into their family and purposely did not pick up the phone to tell me that they are happy I exist.
Now I am being extremely obvious here, if you are at all in my life, you can probably guess who it is I am talking about. You may also guess that a part of me believes that I did it to myself and ultimately it's my fault. While the other part of me is desperately hoping that for one day, for one second, these people could overlook everything that has happened and will shine the smallest amount of kindness on me on this day, as it will be the first time I will be celebrating alone.
As much as I try and convince myself the ones who care will always be there and will make that known. It still really kills me knowing that the people I call family want nothing to do with me. Maybe I just have to reevaluate my definition of "family." I still cry when I think about it. I still choke up when I tell the story. I still have a therapist's voicemail saved on my phone because I am not afraid to share I need help and I want to feel better.
I keep telling everyone I want a corkscrew for my birthday. I am a wine lover and I broke mine a while ago. While I am laughing at myself because I can only imagine how many I will get. All I really want is a handmade card from my favorite four-year-old. Another doodled picture to go with the collection of others I have that I cherish so deeply. It really is the little things in life.
Growing up, every year I wished my Dad would call me or send me a card, even though I knew he didn't have my number or my address. I foolishly wasted wishes while blowing out candles on a cake that he would spontaneously walk through the door. It never happened.
So here I am again, another birthday spent wishing that the one person I want to hear from most won't make a sound. It's like no matter what I do, or how old I get, I will always be stuck in the same problem with a new circumstance.
Please know if you wish me a happy birthday, it will not be overlooked, it will not be minimalized. I love you so much for thinking of me, and it means so much you remembered (or Facebook remembered for you) then you can possibly imagine. I am just trying my best to figure out how to be okay knowing that there are some things I can't reconcile no matter how many times I reach out and try.
So here's to being 26, another year older, another year wiser, (I think?) another year of coming to terms with life and another year closer to being irrationally afraid of finding grey hairs. Happy Birthday to me.