The Paper Trails of a Parasite

I’m not a fan of celebrating my birthday; it’s just a reminder of how alone I truly am. 

The last time I had a birthday party was when I turned seven, this was the year after my dad moved from Arkansas to Pennsylvania and the year before I moved from Arkansas to New Mexico. I invited my entire first grade class and no one showed up. I spent my tenth birthday moving from New Mexico to Texas, so the only gift I got that year was sharing a hotel pull-out couch with my little brother. My eleventh birthday was in the midst of my parents’ custody battle. My mom had recently informed me that my dad wanted her to get an abortion so the only thing I could think about was my possible nonexistence. Plus we were living out of hotels and airbnb’s at the time so the last thing on my mind was a celebration. I’ll tell you about that later. For my twelfth birthday I got Panda Express. 

Honestly birthdays probably wouldn’t have been so depressing for me if I didn’t have to see my little brother get a party every year. The same year I got Panda Express my brother, Brock, got a blow up water slide, five new pairs of Jordans, and a customized cake from Sam’s Club. My mom started showing favoritism after I ruined her life, but we’ll get into that later. 

Covid hit one month before my thirteenth birthday. In those thirty days I lost all contact with my friends and put on about twenty pounds. That year I got one oreo cupcake. I sat in my bed and cried. I didn’t understand how the most important day of my life could leave me feeling so empty. I went into my mom’s medicine cabinet and grabbed the first bottle in my sight. I would have succeeded if I didn’t throw up from the amount of fruit snacks I ate earlier to hide the pain. 

After that I didn’t want to have a birthday anymore.