Blog for a Birthday

I stole the title from the poet Sylvia Plath's "Poem for a Birthday."  I don't think she'd mind too much, as we share a history of depression and mental illness after all (more information on her here).  

That said, today is my birthday.  And there are times when I wonder how it is I'm still here, after several near-deaths, self-inflicted and otherwise.  There are times when I wonder why I'm still here, and what's the point of being here.  I think my therapist worries about the times when I do this, because she knows where it may lead.  Don't worry, Stacie.  I'm not in that mood today.

Me on my first birthday

The few people in my real life that I genuinely love, and whom I suspect genuinely love me, will mark today in different ways, with dinners or lunches.  Hopefully cash or gift cards too (lol).  But I know I will have their good wishes and their hopes that my new year will be a good one.  I hope so too.  Today, on the day itself, I am working at the gallery.  

I was born in 1960, at the end of the baby boom.  I was the last child in my family, and the only girl. My mother endured 10 pregnancies-only 3 of her children lived.  I'm told that if she'd carried all pregnancies to term, I'd still be the only girl.  Then again, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be here because I can't imagine my parents would have wanted 10 children.  Rhythm method or not.

In preparation for a self portrait project that I wrote about a while back, one which continues as I try to figure out how I really want to do this, I have had to look at old family pictures.  This is mostly painful, sometimes happy.  Good things did happen during those years, but they're overshadowed by my memories of sad times.  I am slowly making copies of photos to use because it seems to me that a true self-portrait can't just encompass myself, but also the things that have influenced me over the years.  So it's an ongoing project as I work this out.

In the meantime, I still wonder what difference a birthday really makes.  At least for me.  For years it simply meant very little.  Oh sure, I played along with birthday cakes (because I do love them) and good wishes, but the new year (because I do think of birthdays as a kind of New Year's Day) always seemed fraught with uncertainty because of my home situation.  I never knew if my birthday would bring joy or pain, if I would suffer because I was taking attention away from His Majesty, my father.  I know my oldest brother refuses to celebrate his actual birthday because of this.  

I suppose, though, that for the sake of those around me I should at least go through the motions and act like I'm enjoying the festivities.  And try to think about all that I've accomplished in the past few years even as many things have gone wrong (but that's life, isn't it?).  

In the back of my mind, though, I'm afraid I'll still be thinking about the past as much as I try to escape it.  On an episode of "Criminal Minds," one of the major characters recited this quote from Wendell Berry

The past is our definition.  We may strive, with all good reason, to escape it or what is bad in it but we will only escape by adding something better to it

I haven't yet escaped, but I'm doing my best to add something better.

So Happy Birthday to Me.  

later,
lin