I hate birthdays. Holidays of all kinds are iffy but birthdays especially. They have all the sins of forced cheer plus a gross dose of self-absorption. My (ex)mother-in-law loves her birthday. "I love when it's ALL ABOUT ME", she says.  On Aaron's birthday, my mother-in-law hung out with his mistress drinking wine coolers while he and his father came and got his stuff. (I cannot overstate how thoroughly that fact has rendered his parents my mortal enemies for all of this life and the next, and no matter how many lifetimes it takes me, I WILL drink and eat cake while they writhe and sob so mote it be.) Aaron had asked if the pick up time could be earlier in the day so as not to interfere with his party. I remember that I read that text and went into the boys' bathroom and threw up. I did a lot of throwing up and shitting my brains loose then.

Today was his father's birthday party. Of course I was not invited and wouldn't have gone anyway and nobody wondered how all that might make me feel, today or as an echo of the last birthday horror, either one. I tried to choke it down. But I failed. In the end, I took his face off. I try to understand. I'm going for dispassionate comprehension. But I only manage nauseated circa homicidal.

Shattered. Heart ill. Making a wish

(and then another on the second blow, just for me)