She would have turned 65 today.

For the past few years, I've been depressed at this time of year, and it's worse when the day approaches.

I don't feel depressed about it anymore.

I remember her saying, "When you're on your own, you'll call me a lot." I didn't have the heart to tell her that that would not be the case. Thank God she never lived to see the day. I may not be the world's worst daughter, but I'm also not needy.

But when I think of this, I think of all of the times people have said things contrary to who I am. Mr. Asshat, who apparently never listened to me when I opened my mouth, ever. My mom, who I made face the reality that I wasn't out to marry rich. (I also made the mistake of saying, "Stop saying that I'm unique. No one is unique or special. We're all just people." You would have thought I had actually said, "Hey, I like eating puppies!" for the way that she and my brother reacted.) ExFiancee, who didn't listen to me at crucial moments. My life has been people I loved and cared about not listening to me. I think, that is where I get "No one wants to hear it" and "I shouldn't intrude by drunk dialing you" and "I just feel like I'm whining" when I talk about myself on a personal note.

Long ago, The Writer told me to be "more mysterious". What the fuck is that? Mysterious? I don't get it. I try not to talk about myself, because fat lot of good that does for anyone listening. There's about three people I know that actually listen when I speak with them, and although I may not see them often, I am thankful that they do listen. I've been around enough people with boundary problems that I'm highly aware of what you do and don't say. If I'm going to be "mysterious", I may as well not fucking talk at all. I'm not saying I'm perfect; occasionally I commit the random faux pas. But I own that I may have said completely inappropriate things. It's not as if I'm going to lie if people ask me a fucking a question. And I don't think it's the height of mysterious to just say, "I'm sorry, that question is off limits". I would expect any decent person to do the same to me if I ask something they consider too personal.

I've heard "you don't mean that" far too often. I was thinking about the post that I wrote earlier this morning, and I do feel that way, but I can hear the sigh of my mother and her ghost saying, "you don't mean that", like so many times before. But I do. It may be harsh, it may be crass, but that's how I feel. I'm in love with a darkly romantic idea that will never, ever happen. I know this, and that's why I'm comfortable with it. If I can't have it, I'm not settling, because I won't be happy. It is completely unattainable. I did die a little each step closer to serious, only because the actions spoke volumes more than the words. I never want to get that close again, because who knows how long it will take me to recover, and I don't want to be a fucking hopeless alcoholic mess when I'm 40. It's part and parcel of the whole "getting over yourself" thing, the entitlement, the idiocy.

It's not that I didn't love her. She was a really good mom in most of the important ways. And it's not like I didn't love ExFiancee, because I really did. They were a lot alike, though. And that made it difficult. And heaven help me for saying this, it's not like I don't care about Mr. Asshat. Wherever life takes him, I hope he gets the life that he wants, because he deserves it.

I'm just frustrated that very few people actually listen. I'm not telling some deep, moving story to anyone. I'd rather just talk about shit, light-harted silly stuff, jokes, jobs, silly childhood things, because that's what people listen to. That's way more comfortable than talking about myself, despite the 40,000 words I've written here on the subject. I don't like it to be about me; the thought of getting married and having attention on me FOR A WHOLE FUCKING DAY pretty much paralyzed me. I don't want to be fawned over, it makes me physically ill.

That's why I can't write at that other obnoxious site. People would subscribe to it. That's really fucking creepy, and it makes me paranoid that people would actually read my shit. (Random Internet Strangers? No problem! My friends? NO!) I'm not that talented, special, or insightful. I'm just me. If people find me, I want it to be a delightful surprise - or random horror, depending on which post they see. I know that I'm a mixture of creepy cold-hearted bitch and the most amazingly nice and patient person ever. It all depends on the context. I'm stubborn, but I also know how to compromise, and will admit I can be wrong. I don't pretend to know everything, nor do I have an interest in knowing everything.

To bring this back to the original point, she probably would have retired. Which would mean calls from her bitching about my dad or just chatting. Not that I'd mind chatting, but I'm a bit of a loner and damn if I don't get tired of talking to people on the phone. I'd still be listening to it, the passive-aggressiveness, judgmental attitudes, and horrible nosy questions about boyfriends. ("You like him, dooooon't yoooooou?" My response to that should have been, "Well, until you brought it up, yes. I think I'm going to go join a lesbian commune now, thanks." But then she probably would switch to "So you like her, dooooooooon't yoooooooooou?" What part of "It's none of your business" don't you understand? GAH!)

But I knew this. I knew she wasn't going to live, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to be me until she was no longer living anymore. And that's just how it is. I never felt guilty for that, though sometimes I think I should, but I just can't. I'm happy now, and it's alright.

I can remember again. I can feel again.