Birthdays are a weird thing for me.
I love them. I love celebrating life. I love celebrating people.
But here’s the truth: I cry every year on my birthday. I am that girl that cries on her birthday. (Maybe if I acknowledge I am that girl, I’ll be less cliche?) It’s a weird dynamic – I love birthdays, but I always end up in tears on mine.
This year is an especially weird birthday for me. As my 22nd birthday approaches, I can’t help but reflect on my past birthday…
My 21st birthday should have been a horrible. COVID was still fresh on all of our minds, and my dreams of getting a birthday mug at Nitty Gritty were crushed. I still wanted to make the best of the day, so after a wonderful celebration with my family (+ Mike and Daryn), I threw together an BBQ so a few of my friends could feel safe seeing each other outside. It ended being the best birthday I’ve had so far.
I was finally able to see my friends after leaving Madison abruptly when COVID cancelled classes, my boyfriend had put together a thoughtful watermelon-themed surprise, and I was surrounded by people I loved. I felt happy.
But, as you now know, I always cry on my birthday. What would I possibly cry about this year?
Along with joy, complex emotions were swirling through me as I celebrated. This is going to sound strange, but growing up, I could never imagine myself older than 20. I’m not sure what the relevance of “21” was, maybe it’s because I could legally drink at 21, which seemed like a very adult privilege. Whatever the case, my brain built a wall, and I was unable to picture myself after college, after school ended, and after I began “adult life”. I didn’t know what I would do; if I would end up in graduate school, where I would move, who my friends would be… Looking back, I think I felt anxious. I worried so much about my future that I blocked my thoughts from going there. When I turned 21, in my brain, life just… stopped.
On top of this anxiety, my 20th year was pretty temoltulous for my mental health. Long story short, I was finally actively confronting a mental disorder and going to therapy during this year. Along with this disorder grew a belief that I didn’t deserve anything – food, happiness, life. Also, after living with my disorder for so long, I couldn’t picture life without it. For the longest time, I couldn’t picture myself at my 21st birthday happy, because I couldn’t picture life without a disorder. It seemed impossible.
Yet, at my 21st birthday, as I sat on the bathroom floor after one (or two) too many birthday shots, surrounded by my friends, I felt happy. And I was alive.
Life didn’t stop, and I was… happy? Even though I still didn’t know what my future held, I had made it to 21 years – despite not being able to picture it in my head. Even though I still had things to work on with my disorder, I was happy in that moment. I felt proud to have survived up until my 21st, and I felt proud to feel happiness. I remember sobbing tears of gratitude and relief once I realized this. I think everyone thought it was just drunk tears of a girl on her 21st birthday – but this day felt really monumental for me. It was a milestone I could never imagine reaching – and here I was.
Now. Saturday is my 22nd birthday. Full disclosure, I am slightly worried I am going to be that girl on her birthday, crying (again). I don’t know if I will feel that happiness that I felt on my 21st.
Firstly, Daryn is across the world from me in Washington. I won’t be able to talk to him because he is scheduled to be doing military things in the forest (with zero cell reception) on my birthday weekend. I know, first world problems, but it sucks a little bit.
On top of this, I can’t help but reflect on the past year and wonder how much I have actually accomplished. Did I really live up my last year of undergrad? Did I show enough appreciation for the people around me? How much have I actually grown and improved this year? Did I waste a whole year feeling sad and unconfident? Am I actually any better off than I was last year? These questions haunt my thoughts as my birthday approaches, and after a previous birthday filled with so much pride, I am putting so much pressure on myself for my 22nd.
I know I graduated college the year, I know I was accepted into law school this year, I know I survived a pandemic. I know, logically, I accomplished things. But my personal insecurities combined with a fear of how this next year in law school will turn out is poisoning my ability to think clearly.
Birthdays are weird. They are a random date that you just decided to pop out of you mom. Time in general isn’t even real, humans made it up! Ultimately, it’s meaningless. But, everything has meaning if you give it meaning. To me, birthdays represent a milestone – you made it through another year, even if it was shitty and characterized by mental illness and a pandemic! To me, birthdays are an accomplishment. Living is hard sometimes, and I think it’s valuable to celebrate the fact that you managed to do it for a whole other year.
So, here is my pledge. Even as fear and disappointment litters my brain, I am going to try to remember to celebrate my life on my 22nd birthday.
I made it another year. That’s at least one thing to be proud of.
P.S. I know I sort of just through the mental health thing out there! I want to write more about that topic, but it’s still a little scary to write about. If you would be interested in having me write about it, maybe let me know. Most likely more to come:)
Grace in the City 