Birthdays

Birthdays. Have you ever really given this much thought? Why do we celebrate birth as such an accomplishment? Like it took so much effort, so much work to make it to the next year. It’s not like graduating with a masters degree. It’s not like earning an Eagle Scout award. It’s not like running a marathon. So why does this one day a year carry the weight of all of these things combined? It’s fucked up, right?!

I’m battling with this thought. While also questioning how I survived this year, and feeling grateful to still be alive. But, I am also feeling so miserable and wish more than anything, sometimes, that I were dead. I have so much hatred for myself. I hold so much grief and trauma. It’s truly so difficult to be alive some days.

It’s my birthday. The day we celebrate birth. The day we celebrate life.

Life.

You know. That thing I’ve lost so much of this year. That same fucking thing we’re celebrating?! So fucking sue me because I’m not in the mood to celebrate. Because I’m not in the mood to do anything and I just want to lie in bed in cry.

In fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing as I write this.

I’m thinking about Jared, Alex, Walter, and others today. Thinking about so many lives lost too soon. Mike is on my mind too. How am I supposed to celebrate my own life on this random day that feels like every other, when I have lost so many lives around me and I don’t feel like there is anything to celebrate anymore.

Is a birthday something worth celebrating? While it’s not quite the accomplishment that running a marathon or reaching the rank of Eagle Scout, life is difficult and it’s a journey. Honestly, birthdays are worth celebrating even if it feels mundane.

I survived another year of life in this hellhole of a dark world we live in. I’ve survived depression and anxiety and grief and trauma and PTSD and judgement and loss and heartache and so much more. I’ve done the damn thing. As simple as it may seem, it’s not. So I should be celebrating even though I don’t feel like it.