Happy Birthday to Me

Once a year a day comes around that's all about celebrating yourself. It's your birthday! Woohoo!

Normally I really like celebrating my birthday, but this year, with no job or prospects, feeling low about the turn of events of the Democratic Party and the Governor of New York; and generally feeling a bit blue about the state of the world, it's just another day today and I'm going to try to ignore it as best as possible. (Which isn't true, I'm meeting some people from the Boathouse and we're going to have a planning meeting over drinks and food in my neighborhood.)

At 44, I feel like a gigantic failure at everything. Theater, writing, libraries, archives, relationships, the whole nine yards. I told some friends of mine at a part-time job I have that I'm pretty sure that my mom is actively praying against me (because you know, I'd like to blame it on Ma rather than on myself, really.) I can hear it in her voice. "Dear Lord," I imagine I hear her pray, "Please let my daughter know the power of your ways and let her bow down her head toward you, even if you have to bring her low so that she can cry out to you since I know that you will hear her voice and give her peace of mind and joy in her heart and fulfill all of her desires as long as she follows your ways forever." Of course, I have no idea in hell if she's actually saying this, but sometimes I feel it from her. There's really nothing else that we can talk about, or actually, there's really nothing I can talk about because she's always talking about how I should believe more and pray more. She's so worried about me going to hell that it makes me physically and mentally ill sometimes. A few days ago she even suggested that I could always come home if things get too rough.

It's always been like that, though. I get no words of support or encouragement, but a constant, "if only you'd believe enough." And then that makes me want to believe in myself more, but frankly, I keep making a mess of things anyway. Maybe I should just stop trying and getting a little apartment somewhere out in nature and never speak to anyone again. While she's trying to encourage me and I know part of her wishes I would believe in myself, most of the time, it just sounds like I'm a great disappointment to her and to God.

So. Happy birthday to me. Break out the teeny, tiny, violins.

At least I have a roof over my head, an Internet connection, and some family and friends who care about me. It's pretty much the only thing that keeps me chugging along, besides an overwhelming sense that this too shall pass, but really, I'm feeling about low as possible right now.