Returns of the Day
Happy Birthday to me.
I am now a half-century old. Isn't that compellingly stunning? Fifty years. What a mystery, where has it all gone? What have I got to show for all those years? Where is the happiness, the satisfaction? I am fifty years old. What have I accomplished? Above all, why does no one care?
I am friendless. I have no life companion. I am bereft of company, of the comfort of sharing my life with someone. Why, why is that my reality?
I am a decent person. I have a good heart. I know I do, I know I am. I have given more than ample thought to all of this. I am left with no answers, just more questions. These are questions I cannot answer. Answers elude me. Is there something about me that puts people off? Do I offend people by my personality, my character, my values and my choices?
If so, what I can I do about it? Why though would I want to do anything about it? What I present as is me, loud and clear. This is me, whatever my characteristics, my propensities, my inherited and my adopted flaws and properties. Doesn't the good in me outweigh what others may construe as the bad? Why am I left alone through life?
In the nature-and-nurture argument I began with many benefits. My genetic inheritance gave me physical attractiveness, and that remains, reflective of my age. I have carefully preserved my physical presence, just as I have groomed my psychological essence. I remain to the present time a physically attractive woman. I am a kind woman, I believe myself to be that, at the very least.
Other clear attributes are intelligence and an ability to get on well with people. Deep-seated and continually being accelerated for the former, a decided social facade of necessity on the latter account, reflective of most other peoples' public persona.
Since I invited my latest live-in disaster to leave, giving me instant, but short-lived relief, I discovered a transmission of disease that could eventually lead to cancer. I felt so betrayed, you cannot imagine how I raged with the injustice of it all. But the surgery was done, to cleanse me internally of the infection, and I've recovered physically. I was fearful about the surgery. I've never before had surgery, had to be admitted to hospital. I've been healthy, and that's because I look after myself. The very prospect of surgery infused me with terror.
I have been without work for a full year now. I have a household to maintain, a house to pay for, car payments, a multitude of bills to pay. The confluence of a downturn in the economy and a tightening of government expenditures meant the professional contracts with their generous remuneration as a contract worker were now denied me. That, despite my long record of professional work for a number of government departments. Of course, what remains a serious strike against my obtaining future contacts in this economic downturn is my lack of bilingual proficiency; that always seems to trump professional excellence.
In that time frame of no work I developed an Internet presence through a web site I spent hugely tedious and difficult hours designing and preparing for presentation, as an invitation to hire out my experience in another field; that of understanding and communicating successfully with animals, particularly domestic pets. Over the years I have gained an intimate understanding of how their minds work, how to communicate with them, how to dominate their instincts while still respecting their autonomy to an extent.
Teen-age girls can be so cruel. Even to their mothers. My own child belittled my efforts, spending too much time telling me to 'get a job', to 'go back to what you were doing', informing me that I was delusional in thinking I could earn a living through my animal-communication expertise. I was to return to the technical professionalism that had up until this point given me a reliable living wage according to her. As though that's all it takes. Kids know everything.
My parents gave me the impression they viewed what I was attempting to do with the same lack of respect. Although they had agreed to finance me while I was going through this period of instability. This was not what I envisioned for myself. That my parents would begin paying for all my expenses, straitening their own retirement income. My father warned me that the monies transferred monthly by him to my account represented the major portion of their income. As time went on and began to stretch toward a year, he became increasingly short-tempered.
That's typical of him. I was traumatized as a young girl by his gruffness, his demanding character, his anger when his expectations of me went unmet. My mother always acted as the buffer between us. But she had no greater confidence in me than my daughter, expressing the very same doubts with respect to my new initiative. I explained to her how tired I was of working for other people, of always being under someone's thumb, of having to negotiate the social miseries of peoples' jealousies and attempts to undermine my professionalism. I know that this kind of thing is a constant in most peoples' lives, but I was sick of it. I wanted to control more of life; myself, without being indebted to the good graces of people I hardly respected.
My mother insisted I had to get out more, that remaining isolated as I was doing was unhealthy for me. As though I wasn't aware. Yes, I grew increasingly depressed and miserable. Who wouldn't under those circumstances? Knowing that all the men you've ever been involved with while professing to love you really were interested in controlling and exploiting you. Not one of them ever made a decent living. Not one of them was an intellectual and ambition-led match for me. And that was fine with me. All I wanted was to be valued for myself, for what I am, to be cherished. Was that too much to ask for?
I have my companion animals. Two cats, eight rabbits, and ten dogs. Each of them is possessed of a singular personality, a loving, dependent presence. They mean the world to me. My daughter detests their presence, much as she did the presence of the men who temporarily shared our home. The animals represent an embarrassment and a nuisance to her, even though she is attached to most of them. She will no longer invite any of her friends over.
My erstwhile best friend who always confided in me when she had problems of her own that I commiserated with her about, is not there for me to unburden myself of my worries and concerns when I need her. She has become suddenly unapproachable. She did say she was intending to call me directly after my surgery, and did not. She did tell me it was her intention to have us get together to celebrate my birthday. What intention?
The morning of my birthday I was greeted first off by a disgruntled daughter leaving for school, grumpily calling out "happy birthday!" as she left the house for her bus. Nothing else from her. After school she spent the evening with a friend, at her friend's home. Can you even begin to imagine how anguished I feel, knowing no one cares about me? My parents, they say they care.
I don't want my parents' care. I want the care and love of someone with whom I could share my life. I've been abandoned by life. Surely I deserve better. Why is it that rotten, nasty, miserably selfish people have contented family lives, and I'm denied one? What is it that makes me so undeserving of happiness?
Why must I continue going through life utterly disconsolate, with not a living soul to share thoughts and experiences and aspirations with? I'm emotionally drained from crying myself to sleep.
Happy birthday, oh yes, happy birthday. Maude, my Australian Shepherd, left a huge pool of urine in her bed. So much for dogs never soiling their nests. She's six years old, it's not as though she doesn't know better. I haven't been sleeping at all well, lately. So the morning of my birthday I slept in, did not get up as usual to let Maude out before five in the morning. She cannot hold her bladder, never could. So that's what I did, first thing; cleaned up Maude's mess.
And then the others, the pack, began howling for attention. Some of them drive me insane sometimes with their unbridled demands. But even when I rail against them, I love them. They are the true constants in my life; demanding yes, but returning unblemished love to me.
I'm angry with my parents, and don't feel like speaking with them. Two days earlier my father went off on one of his tangents, telling me that eight months of supporting me and their grandchild has left them in a tight financial squeeze, and when was I going to get out and look for a job, any job? They could manage, he said, to supplement my income, but not remain forever the only support; I had to contribute.
As though this is something that hadn't occurred to me. As though I haven't been anguishing over this. As though I planned all of this. Accusing me in other words of being a succubus. If I learned something over the course of the years being their daughter, it was the necessity of standing up for myself. I hung up on him, and won't answer the telephone when they call.
Just as well we live an hour's drive distant from one another. I hate it when they visit. I feel constantly under pressure of scrutiny. As though they're just looking to comment on something to get me fed up with their presence. The feeling, I'm sure, is mutual; we just tend to exasperate each other. I told my mother it would be better if they didn't come by this week-end. I'd informed her earlier that I had no wish for them to get me a birthday gift, under the prevailing circumstances.
My mother sent me an email, wishing me "happy returns of the day". Happy? That's a word that is absent from my dictionary of life. I have never, ever known happiness. Others have, but not me. I have no companion, no one to care about me, no one to communicate with. I am completely alone.
What would I like for my birthday? Someone to hug me, to kiss me, to murmur their love for me. My mother cried when I told her this, she said she would do all of that and more. I don't want her to. That is not what I want, and she knows it very well. Even though I said too that I would like someone to prepare a meal for me, to bake me a birthday cake.
Happy birthday to me
I am now a half-century old. Isn't that compellingly stunning? Fifty years. What a mystery, where has it all gone? What have I got to show for all those years? Where is the happiness, the satisfaction? I am fifty years old. What have I accomplished? Above all, why does no one care?
I am friendless. I have no life companion. I am bereft of company, of the comfort of sharing my life with someone. Why, why is that my reality?
I am a decent person. I have a good heart. I know I do, I know I am. I have given more than ample thought to all of this. I am left with no answers, just more questions. These are questions I cannot answer. Answers elude me. Is there something about me that puts people off? Do I offend people by my personality, my character, my values and my choices?
If so, what I can I do about it? Why though would I want to do anything about it? What I present as is me, loud and clear. This is me, whatever my characteristics, my propensities, my inherited and my adopted flaws and properties. Doesn't the good in me outweigh what others may construe as the bad? Why am I left alone through life?
In the nature-and-nurture argument I began with many benefits. My genetic inheritance gave me physical attractiveness, and that remains, reflective of my age. I have carefully preserved my physical presence, just as I have groomed my psychological essence. I remain to the present time a physically attractive woman. I am a kind woman, I believe myself to be that, at the very least.
Other clear attributes are intelligence and an ability to get on well with people. Deep-seated and continually being accelerated for the former, a decided social facade of necessity on the latter account, reflective of most other peoples' public persona.
Since I invited my latest live-in disaster to leave, giving me instant, but short-lived relief, I discovered a transmission of disease that could eventually lead to cancer. I felt so betrayed, you cannot imagine how I raged with the injustice of it all. But the surgery was done, to cleanse me internally of the infection, and I've recovered physically. I was fearful about the surgery. I've never before had surgery, had to be admitted to hospital. I've been healthy, and that's because I look after myself. The very prospect of surgery infused me with terror.
I have been without work for a full year now. I have a household to maintain, a house to pay for, car payments, a multitude of bills to pay. The confluence of a downturn in the economy and a tightening of government expenditures meant the professional contracts with their generous remuneration as a contract worker were now denied me. That, despite my long record of professional work for a number of government departments. Of course, what remains a serious strike against my obtaining future contacts in this economic downturn is my lack of bilingual proficiency; that always seems to trump professional excellence.
In that time frame of no work I developed an Internet presence through a web site I spent hugely tedious and difficult hours designing and preparing for presentation, as an invitation to hire out my experience in another field; that of understanding and communicating successfully with animals, particularly domestic pets. Over the years I have gained an intimate understanding of how their minds work, how to communicate with them, how to dominate their instincts while still respecting their autonomy to an extent.
Teen-age girls can be so cruel. Even to their mothers. My own child belittled my efforts, spending too much time telling me to 'get a job', to 'go back to what you were doing', informing me that I was delusional in thinking I could earn a living through my animal-communication expertise. I was to return to the technical professionalism that had up until this point given me a reliable living wage according to her. As though that's all it takes. Kids know everything.
My parents gave me the impression they viewed what I was attempting to do with the same lack of respect. Although they had agreed to finance me while I was going through this period of instability. This was not what I envisioned for myself. That my parents would begin paying for all my expenses, straitening their own retirement income. My father warned me that the monies transferred monthly by him to my account represented the major portion of their income. As time went on and began to stretch toward a year, he became increasingly short-tempered.
That's typical of him. I was traumatized as a young girl by his gruffness, his demanding character, his anger when his expectations of me went unmet. My mother always acted as the buffer between us. But she had no greater confidence in me than my daughter, expressing the very same doubts with respect to my new initiative. I explained to her how tired I was of working for other people, of always being under someone's thumb, of having to negotiate the social miseries of peoples' jealousies and attempts to undermine my professionalism. I know that this kind of thing is a constant in most peoples' lives, but I was sick of it. I wanted to control more of life; myself, without being indebted to the good graces of people I hardly respected.
My mother insisted I had to get out more, that remaining isolated as I was doing was unhealthy for me. As though I wasn't aware. Yes, I grew increasingly depressed and miserable. Who wouldn't under those circumstances? Knowing that all the men you've ever been involved with while professing to love you really were interested in controlling and exploiting you. Not one of them ever made a decent living. Not one of them was an intellectual and ambition-led match for me. And that was fine with me. All I wanted was to be valued for myself, for what I am, to be cherished. Was that too much to ask for?
I have my companion animals. Two cats, eight rabbits, and ten dogs. Each of them is possessed of a singular personality, a loving, dependent presence. They mean the world to me. My daughter detests their presence, much as she did the presence of the men who temporarily shared our home. The animals represent an embarrassment and a nuisance to her, even though she is attached to most of them. She will no longer invite any of her friends over.
My erstwhile best friend who always confided in me when she had problems of her own that I commiserated with her about, is not there for me to unburden myself of my worries and concerns when I need her. She has become suddenly unapproachable. She did say she was intending to call me directly after my surgery, and did not. She did tell me it was her intention to have us get together to celebrate my birthday. What intention?
The morning of my birthday I was greeted first off by a disgruntled daughter leaving for school, grumpily calling out "happy birthday!" as she left the house for her bus. Nothing else from her. After school she spent the evening with a friend, at her friend's home. Can you even begin to imagine how anguished I feel, knowing no one cares about me? My parents, they say they care.
I don't want my parents' care. I want the care and love of someone with whom I could share my life. I've been abandoned by life. Surely I deserve better. Why is it that rotten, nasty, miserably selfish people have contented family lives, and I'm denied one? What is it that makes me so undeserving of happiness?
Why must I continue going through life utterly disconsolate, with not a living soul to share thoughts and experiences and aspirations with? I'm emotionally drained from crying myself to sleep.
Happy birthday, oh yes, happy birthday. Maude, my Australian Shepherd, left a huge pool of urine in her bed. So much for dogs never soiling their nests. She's six years old, it's not as though she doesn't know better. I haven't been sleeping at all well, lately. So the morning of my birthday I slept in, did not get up as usual to let Maude out before five in the morning. She cannot hold her bladder, never could. So that's what I did, first thing; cleaned up Maude's mess.
And then the others, the pack, began howling for attention. Some of them drive me insane sometimes with their unbridled demands. But even when I rail against them, I love them. They are the true constants in my life; demanding yes, but returning unblemished love to me.
I'm angry with my parents, and don't feel like speaking with them. Two days earlier my father went off on one of his tangents, telling me that eight months of supporting me and their grandchild has left them in a tight financial squeeze, and when was I going to get out and look for a job, any job? They could manage, he said, to supplement my income, but not remain forever the only support; I had to contribute.
As though this is something that hadn't occurred to me. As though I haven't been anguishing over this. As though I planned all of this. Accusing me in other words of being a succubus. If I learned something over the course of the years being their daughter, it was the necessity of standing up for myself. I hung up on him, and won't answer the telephone when they call.
Just as well we live an hour's drive distant from one another. I hate it when they visit. I feel constantly under pressure of scrutiny. As though they're just looking to comment on something to get me fed up with their presence. The feeling, I'm sure, is mutual; we just tend to exasperate each other. I told my mother it would be better if they didn't come by this week-end. I'd informed her earlier that I had no wish for them to get me a birthday gift, under the prevailing circumstances.
My mother sent me an email, wishing me "happy returns of the day". Happy? That's a word that is absent from my dictionary of life. I have never, ever known happiness. Others have, but not me. I have no companion, no one to care about me, no one to communicate with. I am completely alone.
What would I like for my birthday? Someone to hug me, to kiss me, to murmur their love for me. My mother cried when I told her this, she said she would do all of that and more. I don't want her to. That is not what I want, and she knows it very well. Even though I said too that I would like someone to prepare a meal for me, to bake me a birthday cake.
Happy birthday to me
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