I turn 39 on Friday. It’s weird because, these days, my birthday is probably one of the days I most dread. For years, that was Christmas Eve, or really, any day in December. But now, that’s changed. And I can only be grateful for that, honestly. Mostly because it means life is better. I’m not a gaping wound anymore.
But birthdays? They’re hard.
Birthdays are not these automatic things that people have to acknowledge. Or even know about. I tend to not tell people. I don’t enjoy the spectacle of it. It feels like, when I tell people, I’m asking for something–and when I ask for things–I tend to get walloped. In a bad way. So, yea…I’d rather it be quiet.
I’d rather people have that as an out when they inevitably forget or don’t care. I’d rather be able to tell myself they didn’t know.
The hard thing there, of course, is that my life is fairly solitary. And it always has been. I’m good with that…have chosen that, often…but it still stings to be ignored or unacknowledged. Especially when it’s intentionally done.
I still want to be the woman who doesn’t need people, but I do. I actually do. But try as I might, I’m not someone people show up for anymore.
And that’s not me being dramatic or feeling sorry for myself….I’m not doing that. Just stating facts.
Lots of people have breezed through my life. Few stay. The ones that mattered are long gone, for whatever reason. But there’s always me, and I’m really good with spending my day alone–because that’s how I spend most of my days. I know it’s not forever…well, maybe, it will be…not exactly up to me, it seems. But I’m alright with all of it.
This sounds sadder than it is. I promise.
I’m emotional this week. I always am. I miss her. I always do. But it’s more this week.
Everything is more this year.
But it’s getting better. And days alone with myself are wonderful. No–you can’t have any cake.