My birthday was three days ago. And every year, I have a love/hate relationship with it.
When my birthday comes around, I do have that moment where I say to myself congratulations for making it to 27 years old. That’s why I look forward to my birthday.
However, if anyone asks, I will usually tell them that I hate my birthday.
And it all comes down to unnecessary jealousy.
My birthday is at the beginning of September. What usually happens at the beginning of September? School starts. No one wants to celebrate a birthday when they’re trying to figure classes out. Or, most of the time, no one knows. And by the time they know or they’re settled into classes, it’s too late. It’s time to celebrate other people’s birthdays.
The time I felt the most hatred for my birthday was two years ago when I was in Scotland. I didn’t know anyone in this new country, so I didn’t celebrate (because my immature brain thought self-celebration was useless). No one knew or cared.
Fast forward a month and a half later, I check my social media to see a good friend was given a surprise party on her birthday by her classmates and friends. Wow, none of my friends or classmates have even thought about giving me a cake, much less a party.
Fast forward again several months later when we are at a party for one of my Scottish classmate’s birthday. Now that we know each other, classmates, now friends, are willing to party and celebrate each other’s birthdays. Except me.
I can hear you all: ‘why do you care so much?’
Because I want to celebrate my life.
As someone with a past of attempted suicide and still have passive suicidal thoughts, I want to celebrate the fact that I’ve continued to live. Every new year is a gift. And I want everyone I love to be part of that.
This year has been different. I’ve started to understand the true meaning behind self-celebration. I’d still like my friends to be around or to bother. However, everyone has their own agenda and my birthday does not have to be in it. So. I’ll celebrate on my own when I need to.