Let Me Eat Cake
I read Anne Frank’s diary as a child and forever called my feeble attempts at one, Kitty, the same as she did hers. I wanted mine to be just as important—minus her suffering, of course. I thrive inside drama, but have no actual affinity for pain.
I lined up whichever pens I scrounged from around my family’s apartment, and wrote about prepubescent injustice from my tenth floor bedroom in a five subject, college ruled, spiral notebook. It took only an 11-year-old’s sharp eye to figure the emerging patterns in my decorative chicken scratch. Despite ever widening frustration with myself, I was powerless.
I ached to be my own hero, and by hero, I see now that I meant, victim—placing people in a position to be an asshole to me. Or not. Their choice.
I abandoned those early attempts at clarity, pushing them out of my mind at the first opportunity, or once someone lit up.
As my teen years bled into my twenties, I leaned into building a fictional fortress around myself, keeping me safe. I recruited a small but mighty band of people kind enough to love me. I opened the gate for them if they waded into the mote for a painfully long time. Then I sealed it shut.
I cultivated a character I called, “daughter” and then, “friend,” and then, “wife,” and then, “mother.” All of which resembled someone I hoped I wanted to be. I set the truth aside for fiction—nuggets of hard earned sand amid a desert. It remained a dust storm, except for those in the know.
And then I began here. Many secrets inside the castle have risen up, rebelled and shed the armor. The Kate Chronicles is the first piece of naked truth I’ve allowed myself to indulge in. These pieces are my battle cry.
Which is why it surprised me so very much to see that this journaling is working for me. I have witnessed the changes in who I’ve become by lowering the gate enough to peek at what I’ve been hiding from.
Last week was my birthday, the one day of the year I wear my disappointment on my sleeve. Historically, anyway. By not fighting the negativity, by acknowledging all of that baggage and doing it anyway, I managed to switch my whole narrative.
I am not too fat to be the center of attention. I won’t fail the thank you note test of my youth, and I will enjoy each gift. This year, I decided to embrace the whole of it. I leaned in, letting my husband throw me a little party of many of my new friends. I didn’t expect to enjoy it, but I took happy part in the planning.
My son gifted me a stuffed dog, the most perfect combo of my own two. My other is planning to string lights across my new deck. Though I asked him for it when he first came home weeks ago, he’ll get to it when he comes back in the fall, after the weather’s gone cold. Even that I’m not too annoyed about. Besides writing it here.
A few weeks ago, my friend asks me what my favorite cake is. She wants to bake it for me, she says. Instead of beating myself up for not knowing what I like, for not thinking enough of myself to have my own opinion beyond this one’s distaste for whipped cream, or that one’s dislike of strawberries or icing. My new found opinion wouldn’t allow me to stand for another cake compromise. This year I got to think about what I would like.
My niece baked some a challah and a babka and hopped a train from Chicago for this shindig. My sister and nephew came in the night before though they couldn’t stay for the party. As I got ready for the gathering, I had a vague recollection of writing something about my August Birthday Blues last year.
I took a cup of coffee to my desk, hoping to glean a little progress. That sad woman in last year’s birthday story is familiar. She refuses to ask for what she wants. She blames people for listening when she emphatically states that she no longer cares. Wow, she was some piece of work.
As I read back, I felt the sea change. I thought about diving into the old journals. Perhaps there was more than one pattern I’d broken. In all these years I assumed I’d find that nothing inside my emotional terrain had moved, that the arc of my character would not have changed at all. A fear for me akin to being buried alive.
Surrounded by gifts, that included but were not limited to, earrings, said birthday cake, a sage smudging kit, a moleskin notebook, a singing Darla dragonfly puppet video, wine, an artisan mug to drink it in, peanut butter and a game of bird bingo, friends I love, and my fellas celebrating me, I was able to experience something else entirely.
The realization brought tears to my aging, drying eyes. In journaling, I’ve finally pushed the needle into joyful, peace-filled energy.
Oh, Dear Kitty, how are we going to top this?