So this is a story I am thinking about a lot lately.
Many, many, many, many moons ago I was about to turn sixteen. Now, this was before âSweet Sixteenâ blew up into huge parties with limo rides. Lord knows I donât know what they are like now. But they were still reasonably a rite of passage.
That particular year, I wanted to do something special. Which makes sense for a teenage girl. It has been lost to time what exactly that was; if it was a gathering with friends or a celebration with family or something. I certainly was not the cool kid who wanted to throw a huge party. But I did want some acknowledgment of *something* and that something was, namely, myself.
That particular year, my birthday also coincided with a visit from out of town relatives. I grew up with âwe donât really like having companyâ people and therefore turned into one. Which is fine.
So what happened is that my mom, who I am sure was doing the best she could, was laser focused on this visit. She pretty clearly thought me asking about anything for my birthday was, at best, a horrible distraction.
I donât remember how or why it came to a head but it did in the car one day. I remember being near school - I donât remember if she was picking me up or dropping me off or we happened to be over in the area. I could have the location wrong but it was definitely the car. I donât remember if my siblings were with us (they would have been 12 and 8, so not at the high school yet). I would have been a sophomore since my birthday was in the spring. (Also, the year before just about this time our parents uprooted us again by moving us back - yes BACK â to this state from Texas, where we had spent 18 months.)
Anyway. I donât remember what I was tangibly asking for. What I do remember is my mom getting increasingly angry and yelling. Finally she threw up her hands and they smacked back on the steering wheel and she said, âWell, theyâre COMING. I donât know what you want me to DO, [insert my name here].â
At that point, Iâm sure I stopped talking. For one, when yelled at or presented conflict in any way I shut down. (This was a learned behavior. I wonder why. I still do it. Itâs not pretty. Many years of therapy have helped but not fixed it.) For another, I was old enough and smart enough to recognize a rhetorical question when I heard it. For a third, from that point on I probably permanently shut up about it.
All these years later, I donât remember what we did for my birthday that year. I donât recall anything: if there was even cake, or my favorite meal, or gifts. There might have been, maybe the latter, but I donât remember.
What I do remember is that feeling of âyou are not and never will be important enough for me to care what you need. You will never come first or even twentieth.â
No particular reason I am telling this story.
