Tomorrow is your birthday. And I was thinking maybe, just maybe, I would have the bestest gift in all the world to give you. Or maybe I was deluding myself into thinking it could even be a remote possibility. But I was having symptoms. Actual symptoms! So, of course, I broke down and tested, again. And I failed, again. And then, because I had stated not three weeks ago even that I was going to stop thinking about it, stop obsessing, just learn to accept and be calm, I hid my failure under used tissues in the trash can. I want to be calm and accepting, but I also wanted to surprise you, to give you (us) something you would never forget, to give you this fairy-tale ending (or beginning, really). Maybe next year….
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One thing I am still coming to terms with here is how much to share. I tend to be a fairly guarded person. Letting the wall down is hard, and here I am, spilling. In fairly generic yet transparent terms. You said you didn’t mind. You had no problem with me sharing, with people knowing. But the failure isn’t on your head or in your heart, it’s on me. And that’s hard.

It’s also hard to know that 90% of the readers are people we know. The anonymity of the interwebs is a beautiful thing, and it helps me get stuff off my chest and out of my brain. Writing here has been a nice outlet. But what happens when someone reads, and feigns sympathy to my face, but behind closed doors is judgmental? And ok, I’m not giving our friends very much credit (sorry everyone), but I also feel like not too many of our friends are in similar places or have a similar mindset about all of this. But maybe that’s just my insecurity coming out…

Sorry to be so dramatic. I’m going to go ahead and blame that on the clinical depression. Everything escalates to super drama in my mind, and then I get to type it out and share, for better or for worse. So, happy birthday. Sorry I’m lame.