Tomorrow, I turn 41. I don't think I'll be receiving a nervous breakdown combined with several weeks of deep depression like I did last year, but there are gifts from my brother and from Elliot so I won't be coming away completely emptyhanded.
This year, for the first time, I won't be getting a birthday card from my parents. The last time we spoke was a year ago January. At the end of that conversation, my dad said he would be calling me much more frequently but then decided he'd never be taking to me again only he never told me why. I didn't know this last March when I phoned grandma only to reach a disconnected line. I called dad time and agian to find out what happened to grandma, but they never called back. Then, last Mayish, I called him all times of day and night and left tearful messages about feeling alone and scared and begging him to call me back. Nope. It's not to be.
What happened to grandma, you ask? Well, dad and stepmom decided to move her against her will to a place that can provide extra care for her in her dementiated state but didn't think my brother or I needed to know about it. When it was obvious they weren't going to tell me what happened or how to get hold of her, my brother asked them three times, in person and on the phone, for her updated phone number. They wouldn't give him the info, either, so he decided to just search for her in the White Pages online. He found the new number, so I called her and talked to her for awhile, making sure to tell her that my parents kept the information from us even though we repeatedly asked for it. Oooh, snap!
So I guess my grandma told the horrible beasts that I called her, and female horrible beast asked brother how I got her phone number. Brother told female horrible beast that I looked it up online (I told him he could say it was me) and that was that. I talked to my grandmother's sister the other day. She says that female horrible beast is in charge of grandma's finances and billpaying and that, not only do they rarely visit her but that female horrible beast won't even give her money for a haircut. If I was there, this shit wouldn't be going on, I assure you. But there's nothing I can do from here, especially when the horrible beasts won't even give me a chance to excoriate them.
Since the horrible beasts refuse to talk to me or call me back and since they reportedly didn't seem to much care when they heard I was ill but they find it necessary, still, to send birthday and Christmas cards signed "with love" (as if they know the meaning of the word) I decided to send them a note to end the painful charade. So, months ago, I sent them this:
I take it they received it, because I didn't get a card from them for my birthday for the first time ever. Good riddance, horrible beasts.