Birthday

It was my birthday this past week.   I turned forty two.   Every year I experience my birthday in a fairly similar way.   I feel anxious.

I am guessing that under my feelings of anxiety I just feel really, really sad.   Birthdays have often been that way for me since I was a little boy.

After my dad exited my life when I was six,  he moved to a place which was about 3,000 miles away.   My mom and I occasionally would travel that kind of distance from where we lived but we never talked about visiting him.   

As a child I always dreamed that I would grow up and maybe go to college near where he lived.   I dreamed that he and I would get to know each other.   It was like he had the key to some important part of me.   And that he was the only one who could help me manifest whatever that important part of me was.

For a few years after he left  he wrote letters;  often they were funny and involved characters he made up.   He had a rich and kind of goofy imagination.   I loved to read them.  But it was very painful because I missed him so terribly.   I would laugh at the stories while my heart-space was clenched tightly like a fist.

After a few years the letters became less frequent.   The one thing I continued to actively anticipate was the call he made to me on my birthday.    Starting a few weeks before my birthday my insides told me that I was going to have my yearly conversation with my dad.   By the time I was eight or nine my body would start to tighten up in that time leading up to my birthday.

It was usually a fairly perfunctory conversation.   I was often sort of in shock and so he would do the talking.    He asked me questions that I could offer a short answer to.      He would reference the imaginative stories from the letters.   The whole conversation usually lasted about fifteen minutes.    Then wait for next year to talk to him.

On my thirteenth birthday he asked me if I had been laid yet.   I told him no even though I actually had.   Four months later he took his own life.

After he died,  It didn't really occur to me that part of my birthday experience was waiting for his call,  and making damn sure I was near the phone in the afternoon and evening on my actual birthday.    I think I was in my thirties when I started realizing that my experience of my birthday was often sad and wondering why that was so.

The other part of my birthdays which has left a definite signature is related to my mom.   

My mom always took me out for a special dinner on my birthday.   She took us to a nice restaurant,  one we would only go to on special occasions.   She'd get the staff there to bring me a nice cake and to sing me Happy Birthday.    Those are happy memories.

Sometimes my mom has gotten me really thoughtful gifts too.   Stuff I was really interested in and about which I was thrilled as soon as I opened a tear in the wrapping paper.    A number of other times,  however,  she was in a more manic state and could get me gifts which were odd and which did not match my tastes or interests in any way.    Usually they were things that she liked but that I couldn't care less about.   I have forgotten most of those gifts I received from her but now,  whenever I open a package from her I inwardly flinch just the slightest bit.     

My wife and family are very sweet and thoughtful to me on my birthday.   They are helping me to gradually transform the sadness which every year comes over me at this time.

What a wonderful gift.

Your comments are welcome.

Warmly, Ben