disposedly I may never forget his birthday.
I love numbers, always have, and as soon as he told me his birthday, I smiled and said, “Oh, cool; three to the third.” He smiled at the nerdy way my brain had branded the date into my memory.
Now, having not seen or spoken to him in months, it dawned on me about a week or two ago that his birthday was soon approaching.
I’ve kept myself from contacting him. No texts. No calls. Every day I think about it, either in a passing moment or in the struggle of an addict trying not to get just one more fix. But now, the irony of a text to him on his special day just seems fitting.
I don’t know if I’ll do it. Something in me wants to if for no other reason than it is the perfect excuse. No other day of the year lends itself to my self-destructive tendency to keep this man in my life. And considering how shitty my special day was, why the fuck not inject a thought into his brain?
But the logical side of me, the part of me that wants to protect myself from myself, is resistant, realizing the harm it could bring, the further damage I could inflict upon myself.
What would I get out of such a message? Opening the Pandora’s box of contacting him. Placing myself back on his hook. Splaying my wants and needs out again, knowing most likely he will not fulfill them.
Something in my brain sees this as how it should be. The constant unknowing, hoping for what can never be, what he will never want or allow. Something in my brain nudges me to act in ways I know will not be in my self interest, ways that will do more harm than good. Because my brain believes he will change. My brain believes it can be different, he can be different.
My brain believes things I know, more likely than not, will never be true.
So I try to tell my brain to shut up, which Doc insists is not the way to tame my urges.
Then I try to listen to the voice behind my thoughts, which Doc encourages. I listen to her, the little girl who just wants to be loved. The little girl who believes if she just does this or says that he will want her, he will change for her. The little girl who wants the attention, the approval, the care he never gave.
I hold her. I caress her hair. And I tell her everything will be alright. I tell her I love her, no matter what.
So whether or not I send that text on the 27th, whether or not I open up Pandora’s box again, I try to continue to love myself despite myself, whatever consequences my swirly brain’s decisions elicit.
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