february 14th

every february 14th i try to so hard to steer away from addressing the fact that it’s valentine’s and my birthday, not because i don’t want to think of them as necessarily non mutually exclusive but rather because i have so many unresolved feelings about both of them.

i don’t celebrate my birthday. i say that a lot to the people around me because i don’t want a happy birthday wish. (not from everyone, at least.)

though i do find it unsettling what birthday celebrations have become —more often than not an empty ritual of consumerism that is— mine is not a case against birthdays; my issue with it is more personal.

sure, the socially obligatory aspect of it, the debt i now feel that i have to return the favour (which goes against my own principles), the awkwardness of giving a curt reply to a birthday wish, its roots in consumerism culture, all are part of why i’m not too keen on celebrating my birthday but it goes beyond that as well.

i just feel it’s rude how a date acts as a reminder to the people in my life to — to what, appreciate me? like, ring ring, it’s time to appreciate this bitch. i don’t understand how that works.

and it’s me. i’m the bitch. and this bitch, although having the memory of a fish and sets reminders to take her meds, needs no reminder to celebrate her existence, and would very much like to be appreciated by her loved ones year round. 

i don’t even remember my birthday last year. the year before that i had a panic attack that night, i don’t even remember why. the year before that i was miserable for god knows what reason, and my friend tried to cheer me up. and i was happy for those few hours. i was also clinically depressed and not on medication so, you know, with the exception of the rare occasional shorted lived highs of joy, being miserable was my standard state

my point is, i’ve had better days. 

i have what i like to call chronic birthday blues. i’m still trying to figure out exactly this condition. i already know a part of it is caused by the social hype of birthdays and the expectations —my expectations— based around it.

so when i say i don’t celebrate my birthday i mean i don’t want to celebrate it in the traditional way. i mean, give me a hug and wish me a happy birthday with no conditions and you’ve got a happy gal. 

i don’t want anyone to feel obliged to celebrate my existence. i have so much pride in who i am as a person, and i honestly feel, fully knowing how self-centred that sounds, that i am a gift to the people in my life. this mostly stems from how much i value human relationships, so it goes both ways; the people in my life are also invaluable gifts to me. in the grand scheme of things, the passage of our lives mean nothing except to the community in which we both affect and be affected by, and that’s what matters to me most.

the only thing i truly want for my birthday is its acknowledgement by my immediate family and close friends. i want it to bring me closer to the people i love. i want it as a day or remembrance of what i have in my life rather than a celebration of myself. for all my dips in self confidence and the self destructive habits i subconsciously adopted, i still know how to celebrate my being in this world on a regular basis. i know my worth.