Why my birthday usually sucks

Yeah.  In a couple hours I’m 38.  Big fat hairy deal.  The only person that will remember and acknowledge it is my 13 year old (well, and E, but she's awesome).  Not even my baby brother, whom I SHARE the day with will call me.

Me and the baby bro.  We share 

the "day of twinkies and suck"

Last year I ran an experiment.  I took my birthday off of FaceBook.  I can count how many remembered on one hand.  Yep.

So why is this a big deal?  I’ve no real idea.  Maybe it’s the whole concept of being an eldest child in a SEVERELY dysfunctional family…  The last really amazing birthday that I remember is 30 years ago.  My Gran did something kind and indulgent and amazing – she let my mother have my birthday party at her house.  This was huge because my Granna had a POOL.  For one shining afternoon, I felt loved, like I had friends, that people besides those that had to actually gave a damn cared.

The following year I got chicken pox the day before my birthday.  I knew that nothing was going to be done for my ”special” day, but I didn’t even get cake.  My birth father remembered, and sent me a gigantic hand-made music box.  The box is long gone, lost after too many moves to too many states.  It played “you are my sunshine” and I swear that it carried Dad’s scent.

The year after that, weeks before my brothers and I were taken out of Mom’s house for a year and the beginning of really bad financial crap, I was sick all day and was still expected to do my chores.  Again, no cake.

The day I turned 14 a chemical plant exploded.  That was about it on the exciting for me; again, no “happy birthday,” no cake, not even a hug from my folks. 

The day I turned 16 the boy I was dating took me to prom.  That was pretty awesome, despite my mom forgetting my birthday again.  K was dapper, fun to be with, and we went to dinner.  I can’t remember if I had cake, but by that time, the cake had literally become a horrible lie to me. 

The crappy birthday train just continued on, with some really bad ones…  Broken promises from my mom, moving by myself, dealing with sick kids…

And now I’m 38.  I still cannot stand birthday cake.  This is the third birthday without my husband, who can generally be counted on to eventually remember my birthday.  Our “real” anniversary is his birthday, no way to forget that.  I will be at home with a pack of kids that don’t care that today is supposed to be Mommy’s “special” day.

Mostly, I want that feeling of my eighth birthday again.  Friends coming to celebrate with me, the feeling of being liked and loved, someone more than the freaky weird kid that no one wants to play with and the woman that is told “If I were there…”

EPIPHANY?

            I guess that’s the big one…  I hate the isolation that birthdays seem to rub my nose in, just like the isolation I feel around the holidays.  I miss having friends that don’t live in my computer.  So once again I am going off-line for my birthday.  I’ll have my phone, but I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to handle all the “happy birthday” messages from well-meaning friends.  See you on the fifth, dear readers; All three of ya.