Fifty is sort of a horrible number for me. Humiliating. My body is breaking down, and I can’t stand it. I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror these days. My hair used to be my one and only pride, but it’s turning grey now. It’s dry and frizzy and quite impossible. I don’t even have a hairstyle anymore. It all just greying frizz. Dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, mixing with lines of worry. Makeup doesn’t help these days. It just makes things look worse.
Nobody celebrated my fiftieth birthday. There was nothing to celebrate. Something horrible had happened. So horrible I can’t even write it down. I was somewhere else on my birthday. Involuntarily. It definitely wasn’t my choice. I was being denigrated. On my birthday. Let me say no more. For once in my life I was actually going to have a birthday party, not to celebrate but more as a compensation for growing older. But it wasn’t to be. I can’t talk about it, and I will never plan another birthday party. Never. I can’t stand the thought of birthdays. I live 364 days a year. On my birthday I’m dead. Emotionally dead if not physically.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Fifty