• mood: empty
• listening: "Evil" by Interpol

this one's gonna need some content warnings for SA, DV, and violence in general.

I have what I'd like to call "dates autism". I was a lot better at this before covid--I'm convinced that contracting covid definitely once, probably twice, despite being vaccinated, left some mild cognitive problems--but I'm quite good at knowing what date things will fall on in the future. my next birthday will fall the same day as our staff meetings at work. the Fourth of July is gonna be a Saturday next year, as will Halloween. that sorta thing. I know the birthdays of all of my best friend's children and all of my relatives I stay in contact with. I know these birthdays because I can connect them with dates of historical import. we've got the one who shares a birthday with the Insurrection at the Capitol. we've got another who shares a birthday with my late bandmate. my mom actually has two birthdays: one physical (the day she actually came out of my grandmother) and one legal (the day my grandfather registered with the province because he was drunk and forgot what day it was). my stepdad asked me once how I managed to keep track which was which. I didn't know what to tell him. it's just always been this way.

and I also have the great misfortune, therefore, of having Bad Days. Bad Days are the days I have to live through even though, when I see the calendar, I have terrible shivers up my spine about it. the day I was SAed at a party while drunk and on fentanyl. the day my partner almost died in a freak accident. The Actual Worst Day of My Life. yesterday was one of those Bad Dates. I tried to crack jokes about it at Thanksgiving--"Hey, it's Hendrix's birthday!"--but I think it got to me on the inside more than I let on

I'm not sure how I allowed this to happen--maybe because mentally ill, drug-addled teenagers make lousy choices if they don't have proper guidance in life--but, when I was a senior in high school, I dumped the then-love of my life for someone I had very little in common with mostly because I felt bad for him. I grew up in an extremely male-centered household in which the feminine task of "fixing men" came part and parcel with vagina ownership. long story. I don't want to get into all of the details, really. let's just say that the year I spent with this person was one of the worst years of my life, and I have had a lot of Worst Years of My Life. I am nearly twice the age I was back then and still suffering with the consequences of allowing this person into my life.

yesterday was their birthday. "sometimes it falls on Thanksgiving" was one of the ways they were taught--and, later, I was taught--to remember it. (and, y'know, also that it's Henrix's birthday.)

they're 36 now. I haven't spoken to them in well over a decade. I actually maintained contact with them after our relationship ended--I only stopped because I had The Country Brat and decided lots of people are not worth our time--not because I wanted to, but... well, I don't know why, actually. I think the "we're here to fix people" instinct that my mother has ingrained in me is sorta constantly present. I also am just naive and think people will change for the better. I always have, I think may be why I'm like this. I do give myself credit for that. I stay away from the things I used to do everyday, and so badly wish I could still do everyday, because my life depends on it. so does my ability to stay on top of mental and physical healthcare. I changed majors seven times and got four degrees because they never just felt right. I just needed to keep going. I have always just needed to keep going. I always grew up fast. after this person and I broke up, I kept growing up fast. so I became someone who constantly improves to make sure my kid's life is solid, so maybe she won't have to grow up to be like I am.

and they're somewhere out there, 36 now, and... probably still living in their parents' basement. and I wonder if they think about how they managed to cause so much damage to another human being that 15 years, four degrees, one marriage, one divorce, and one entire child later, I'm still a li'l bit broken from it. (if you're out there reading this, I think about all the damage I caused you, too.)

this one might have to end on kind of a sad note. but it also might not. at the end of the day, my life is really good now. the past is called the past for a reason. it passed. here we are. I have a good life. now.