Happy birthday, Dad.
You're …. 54, 55, 56?
I think I'm still jealous that you get to share your birthday with the earth.
I think I'm still a little sad that I never asked you if you enjoyed that.
I don't know why I am talking about you like you're gone; when you're only 17 steps down the stairs in your arm chair with the news on your lap and a glass of indonesian tea on your  left.
I walked by you and you were standing there and I almost hugged you.
Almost.
You were proud that I listened to Etta James.
That made me beam but I didn't let you see it.
So many people take my light from me.
I think the only place that I can go to rekindle that light,
is the notion that maybe one day you won't be disappointed in me.
Or my lack of ability and motivation  in school.
Or my lack participation in this family.
Or the notion that I won't be scared of you, scared of everything anymore.
Scared of loving people and then putting too much of myself into that person because I don't know how to love properly.
I didn't even know how to breath properly.
I had to go to a doctor and they had to tell me to take deeper breaths because I wasn't getting enough air.
Ever.
My breaths were shallow, and guarded, and hesitant.
I have invested hope in the day I won't exercise for an hour and a half every day for a week straight until my body  can no longer function properly.
That I won't take a long shower, with water too hot and knees pulled up to my heaving chest.
Or maybe I won't drink too much and try to feel something with someone.
Or even stop tanning because I am literally burning from the inside out.
Maybe that way people will see how I truly feel on the inside.
Burnt out.
Tired, fatigued. Unworthy.