Today is my birthday. I keep trying, year after year, to convince myself that the way I felt on my birthday the year before was just a fluke, that I only felt that way for one reason or another. But I don’t know if I can push it away this year.
Every year on my birthday, whether I’ve been suicidal recently or not, I have urges that seem to come up out of the blue. It doesn’t matter if I’m surrounded by friends – it actually seems to make it worse. At the end of the day, I feel utterly miserable without any good reason. I wish I could enjoy the day…I wish it wasn’t so complicated. I was looking at the stars last night and found myself wondering how I’ve made it another year when I somehow fully expected to be gone by now. Not as though I’ve been counting down. I just expect something to have happened that would prevent me from making it to August 12th again.
My mom pitied me, I think, that I didn’t have any plans. She came up and took me out yesterday, although I wasn’t up to much since I’ve been sick. I kept telling her that it’s not a big deal, that my birthday really isn’t a huge thing, and she would tell me that it is, and she seemed sad that I felt that way.
Birthdays are complicated. They’re not always simple celebrations of life – although I wish they could be.