Renee's Story: The Hurt Behind My Birthday.

One more day and then it’s Thursday. I’m not counting today since I’m already in it.

One more day and then it’s my birthday.

I’m terrified.

Right now I’m aware that my emotions are only being held in check by my stubbornness, and that I have energy from a good night’s sleep. Once that energy runs out I’ll be fucked.

You see I’ll be 27 on Thursday. Old, I know. But I wasn’t meant to live past my 25th birthday. For as long as I can remember I always knew that I would die on that die. As I got older I knew it would be by my hand.

I never got the chance to end the pain. My psychiatrist made sure I was in the psych ward during that week. He knew full well I would never do anything there, I’d never upset other patients by taking my life. I remember crying so much I thought I’d never stop. It was a cruel thing for him to do.

Part of me — perhaps my intellectual part — understood it wasn’t right to want to die and understood my psychiatrists reasons for dumping me there. The rest of me wanted to scream, cry, hurt myself, break things and just let out the rage of being caged in.

I did nothing. I would lie on my bed and cry. Numb almost. Well, as numb as someone like me can be.

My birthday has always been the worst day of the year. The most horrible trigger days out of all of them (I have 4 major days.) My birthday means I am alone. It always fell during school holidays. My friends were always away on holiday, having a great time. My parents would never bother to take a day off to be with me, since it was only my special day. So I was left at home, alone, with nothing but the tv for company. As a little girl I would sit on the couch and cry, hating that I was alone. As a teenager I would sit on the couch and curse everyone and swear my eternal hatred for everything, especially myself because I wasn’t good enough for anyone to care about.

I always had this idea that since it was my birthday my parents would love me and praise me and actually want to be with me. They’d lavish me with such love that I’d be giddy. Just like how my friends parents treated their kids. But, of course, this silly idea never happened. I wasn’t worthy of their love.

These feelings run deep and resurface every year. Only now it’s stronger and mixed with the feeling — and the knowledge — that I shouldn’t be here. The impulse, the need, the want to end the pain is incredibly strong now. It’s more than I can fight. And yet, it’s the one fight I have to do alone. Of course, there’s no one who would stay with me to help me fight anyway. Alone. Always.

These feelings don’t usually start until the day of my birthday. However, this year they were triggered early. My careful planning, careful idea to make at least part of the day enjoyable, was destroyed and I was made to feel disgusting, worthless, useless, pathetic and horrible. The trigger was smashed, the flood of emotions escaped and now, now, I’m afraid because they’re released. I’m afraid I won’t be able to control them on the day I need to try the most. I can already feel the pull of the blade, the call of the secretly hidden stash of pills. It’s not right. It’s not fair.

I shouldn’t have to fight so hard already. I shouldn’t have to spend the one day that’s meant to be joyous, trying not to hurt myself. I shouldn’t have to spend it alone.

That’s my life. Always alone. Always fighting by myself, not even a person cheering me on. No one to hold my hand.

I pray silently, now, to the universe for the strength to get through it. I’ll worry about the after effects later. Right now I just want to make to the end of the day. And the next. And the next.