Curse you, Birthday!

Let me spin you a yarn.

 Ironically, that's the only way to make yarn, otherwise it's twine. I heard that in a movie once, and as a responsible adult, I take it to be true.
 Prove me wrong, Internet.

This tale goes back many years, longer than half a decade, in fact. And that's not just putting it in a way to make me feel old. For six years now this story has been underway and annually I've made slight of it, but I feel like I now have to accept the fact that I can't deny much longer:  I am cursed.

Not in the beautiful way that a melancholy princess is cursed for being too perfect and she bares her burden with sorrow and peace until one day a handsome prince slays the dragon/awakes her with a kiss/banishes the evil witch/finds the glass slipper/insert stereotypical fairytale ending here where they ride off into the sunset in a crystal carriage as the words "And They Lived Happily Ever After" scroll out in Chopin Script.

This is much less pretty. And much more diseased. I'm the German fairy tale version. The Original. Struwwelbecca. Spoiler Alert: Everyone in German fairy tales die. Everyone. Or their thumbs get cut off.

Fortunately, I still have both of my thumbs. I haven't, however, eaten a real-person meal in,...well, let's just say a while.

It all started on my fifteen birthday. A friend of mine was going to take me rock climbing and I was so pumped I woke up early to shower. I had everything packed and ready and I was going to be sitting, patiently waiting at the door, when she arrived. I stood up, walked out into the hall and promptly passed out and racked my head against the railing of the stairs. Not being able to go climbing hurt worse than the bump I'd dolled out to myself.

Next year for my sixteenth birthday, I got a surprise party. Too bad my head was swimming and after blowing out the candles to my cake, sat on the floor next to the stairs while my guests enjoyed themselves. I was happy, but man, I remember thinking, "Sleeeeeep." How terrible is it to feel relieved when your last guest leaves? I can't be the only one.

Year seventeen through nineteen passed much the same. Most of my birthday pictures are me, white-faced and sunken eyes smiling for the one picture in front of a cake that I didn't feel like eating. In fact, for one of them, my mom woke me up and I came out wrapped in a blanket so I could sit next to my grandparents. I look like death. My sixty-somethings for grandparents are the pinnacle of vitality. Morbid birthday humor.

Last year, I was in Germany, and I didn't advertise. My host mom left me a gift on my seat at breakfast and that about ended the birthday festivities because she took a look at me and gave me some pills to take with my morning orange juice. Comparative to other years though, I felt as fit as a freakin' fiddle.Maybe I should figure out what she gave me...

Whoever said that the only thing that stays the same is that everything changes needs to get themselves over here and work on this matter. After my birthday this year, I held out for two days of gut-clenched pain before vomiting. After I felt a little better and I lay whimpering and shaking on the floor in front of the heater before the cat came up and sat beside my face.

I still can't figure out if he trying to make me feel better or he was taking pity on me and trying to suffocate me and end my suffering.

And thus ends the tale of Rebecca, the Sickened.
Looking back at the last while it's got me thinking. Life is struggle, man. At every birthday, the Universe is asking me, "Hey, you sure you wanna keep going? It could get a lot worse than this. And this sure isn't a cake walk." 

Every year, I guess, I keep shaking my Birthday's hand and saying, "Yep. Bring on the fresh horses."
Bring on the fresh horses, indeed.