I hate that I care so much about birthdays. (Moreso, I hate that I care so much about other people, but that’s a whole different topic.) I feel like everybody thinks I’m ridiculous. They don’t see birthdays as a big deal, but I do.
Growing up, my birthday was the only day that my parents never fought. (…at least in front of me.) It was always the most peaceful day of the year. The day where it seemed like my parents loved each other and everything in my life was going along great. We always went to Macaroni Grill, and cookie cakes were always great. I always got the present that I went shopping with my mom for weeks before. Things were always… neat.
But of course, the second midnight came and it became June 13th, the fights would come back. The bickering, the holes in walls, the Vietnamese words so hopefully Jason and I couldn’t understand… When all of those things started, it was then I realized my birthday was over and I would have to wait another 365 days for my life to be perfect again, just for 24 hours.
After the whole thing with Dad happened, my life kinda fell apart to where even my birthday couldn’t change things. I was the brattiest kid ever, and I just thought that the world owed me something. I wanted everyday to be like my birthday, but of course, that couldn’t happen. It then got to the point where everyday, including my birthday, was horrible, and I just began to resent everything.
Now it’s gotten to the point where I just do so much for everybody else. I want everybody to feel like how I did up to age 9. I want people to see how much their worth is, to see that people love them, to see that they can have their own special day, and it’s not just another day.
But I feel like that’s asking too much. Of my stress levels, of my wallet, of friends in my life that have to attend these events.
Maybe I’ll just cancel my birthday this year and become a hermit and stop planning other people’s birthdays, ha.