Jesus. Today. Today I was born. Through blood and water and screams and, I'm pretty sure, anger.
I don't celebrate birthdays. They just remind me that I'm mortal. That I'll soon be gone. That my value as a woman is diminishing by the second. I can see you shaking your head and opening your mouth to say something, and I know this is sexist as fuck, but it is true. It's different. Men only get better. Sexier. More competent. Whatever. And women... Yeah.
Also today, maybe 13 years ago, I did what needed to be done. I finally grew the balls. And now I'm going to tell you about it because for some reason I remember what happened today, repeatedly, and it's not going to be pretty. But as I've said - I'm not writing this to be pretty. To be all romantic and nice.
I'm writing this to let you see things. And I'm not made out of bunnies and rainbows.
Today, maybe, maybe 13 years ago, I walked out. Remember, I told you about the guy, and the ceiling, and the tears? Even after that, after I was wrecked to nothing, lowered to the lever of things, I did nothing. The only thing that hit me at the time was the realisation that now whatever worth I had... Well, that's gone. I'm a worthless thing. Not a person - nobody sane, nobody with a heart would do that to a person and call it love.
I realised I had no say in anything. The decisions were made for me, immediately - wedding plans. Buying a house. Kids. In a span of a week.
It was approaching December then, and foolishly I thought that I can't ruin his holidays. So I played nice. I quickly became the best live sex doll there ever was - it's easy when your emotions, your nothing matters, and you're given a lot of cues. You just shut everything off, learn the pitch of the moans that are acceptable, what angles are the best for whatever view is needed. And nothing else.
And when that time passed, it was his birthday. And again I was too dumb to ruin anything. So I played nice.
So I played nice.
So I played nice.
Until this day came.
5 February.
I remember finishing my lectures. Marching to his place. Thanking for all the birthday bullshit and telling him that this is over. That I'm leaving.
That wasn't enough. Apparently I'm inadequate to decide. I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't know what's good for me. I just need to do what I'm told because that's how life is.
So I told him that I fell for someone else.
It was absolute bullshit.
But that was the only way for me to go - to break the trust, to lower myself to a lie, to look at his fist coming towards my face and stopping at the last second. To be called a whore.
So I took this exit. I broke myself even more. I became even less.
And I left.
Lighter than air.
It wasn't over just yet though. There was stalking. Threats to kill themselves. Whatever.
But I left. On this day.
I left.
And today I spent 2 hours in a sauna and jumped into a pile of snow in my swimsuit.
I went down the mountain.
I can breathe.
So it's not a celebration. Not really. I hurt someone - really hurt them - to save myself. To have myself at all. All broken, fucked up, quite worthless... But I have myself.
I can jump into the snow half naked. I can scream. I can run. Poledance. Scream. Get drunk.
It is not a celebration. It is a reminder that I'm alive. I am free.
And noone - no one will take that away ever again.
- - - - - - - -
I really hope that your today was nice. Good. It was lovely to see you - even if just a picture. To hear from you. To know that you're happy, or happy-ish. That things haven't changed through these couple of days when I was away.
And on Monday I will be back. On Monday. So soon.
And it'll all be OK.
It will have to be.
I'm sending you a hug. I feel like you really need one.
I'm going to give you one. For my birthday. Because I can. And you're going to shut up and take it.
But now... Rest. Rest. Rest. Give yourself nice things.
You deserve it. You really did.
Trust me.