Another Trauma Dump

I’m not a good person. At least I don’t think I am, and that’s okay. I’m not disparaging myself or anything. I’m also notoriously bad at picking friends—we know this.

I promise there’s a point to this.

I just celebrated my 25th birthday a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve been replaying the night in my head ever since.

I never used to celebrate my birthday—not because I didn’t want to, just that as a child it’s up to your parents or caregivers to make that day special for you. When I started living on my own, I started celebrating with close friends. Mind you, I love a theme. For my 21st, I made everyone dress like me. For my 22nd, I made everyone dress like Taylor Swift. You get the gist. For my 25th birthday, I made everyone give a speech about me.

You must be wondering just how far my vanity goes, and I’ll keep it real with you—it doesn’t go very far. But I did have the epiphany that I have one day in the whole entire year to make everything about me. My insecurities take a back seat just for 24 hours. I deserve that. And so do you.

Essentially, these speeches were some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. Mind you, my friends bolster me all the time, but personally, I never get tired of hearing it. I don’t get tired of being reminded that I’m loved, that I’m doing a good job, or that someone is proud of me.

So I can confidently say I’m no longer bad at picking friends.

Having my aunt there made it extra special because she shared silly childhood stories that I have zero recollection of. We had a laugh. I know what she was doing, though.

She was making up for the fact that her sister, the one who raised me—my adoptive mother—had absolutely nothing to say. I was perfectly fine to move on without a speech from her, but my sister insisted.

In the days leading up to my birthday—well, really it started on my daughter’s birthday—she complained that I didn’t tell her about anything going on. That was a lie, of course, but I know by now that with serial deniers, a paper trail is imperative. I sent her the same invitation I sent my friends, and the theme was right there in black writing. But of course, on my actual birthday, she had an adult-sized tantrum about everyone being dressed up except for her. My aunt gathered her real quick and told her to go get dressed. I didn’t have the energy for it. I didn’t mind her at all that night.

Fast forward to the speeches: I watched her fail to say one good thing about me, to the point where she spoke about her child’s achievements instead. It was in that moment that I decided I’ve subconsciously been kicking a dead horse. What I wasn’t really willing to admit was how hurtful it is to be constantly cast aside by this woman. I thought I could be indifferent about it the way I am about a lot of things. But I’m sensitive, unfortunately, and I always care when I shouldn’t.

The thing about moments like these is that they lay everything bare. You realize it’s not just a matter of personality differences—it’s the complete absence of care and consideration. And once you see it for what it is, you can’t unsee it. You start to recognize the weight of all those times you tried to earn even the smallest scraps of affection or acknowledgment. You start to realize how exhausting it’s been to fight for a place in someone’s heart when that place was never meant for you.

It had always made me angry.

But in that moment, it just hit me that I’d never waste another second trying to be heard—telling whoever would listen (my close family and friends) how awful this person was to me. I’d never argue with her again. If 2 plus 2 is 5, so be it. Some people think they’re above being wrong, above being held accountable, because they genuinely think they’re good people. If you think you’re the most generous person out there, so be it, truly. I don’t have the capacity for the nonsense anymore.

I was starting to lose my mind, genuinely. My therapy work had just flown out the window when I started living with her again. It was affecting me on a level I didn’t think it could. But this is what my therapist meant when she said the real work happens outside the office. I had to catch myself because not only was my mental health affected, but so was my baby. I saw how much me not being okay affected her, and I couldn’t let it go any further.

Truthfully, having lived with this woman and the angry man for so long, I can confidently tell when someone is itching for a fight. And for a self-proclaimed righteous, peace-loving woman, well… she sure does spend a lot of time looking for something to be angry about, or even something to lie about. But I refuse to have any parts. I’m over it.