Turning 30 for me is special. All my life I thought I’d only live up to 25 years. That was my “fact” as a kid/teenager/young adult. But now, I’m about to turn 30. Five years past my “deadline”. I have lived to experience things I never thought was possible for me.
But you know what stings? As I am planning my own birthday, I have to think about when and how “we” can buy myself a cake. Because, it seems to me that it’s too much a hassle for anyone to step up or even think about on their own. Because they had to ask me. They asked me how, where, and when “we” can do that. The only thing that’s left now is for me to actually do it myself. I guess they don’t really think about how bad that hurts me. No one cared to know. If anyone knew my pain as a child, they’d know how deeply these things hurt. Very deeply.
My birthday always reminded me how insignificant I am in people’s lives. How it’s never about me. And it hurts. Every. Time. It makes me not want to celebrate it. It’s one of the days I feel sick having to beg for affection; for attention. It sucks. And it makes me want to vanish.
To think, I would bend backwards for people to feel special on their birthdays because I love them and I want to make them happy and loved in their special day. Don’t get me wrong, I do love making the people I love happy. It just hurts that no one seems to feel the same way towards me.
I guess no one loves me like that. It’s one of the days that makes me want to not feel anything.
I guess the only day I could feel seen and people would think about my pain would be my funeral. Then, it would only be about me. They’d make a video of how beautifully they think I lived, how important I am to them, how much they appreciate everything I have ever done in my life. I’d get flowers without having to ask or guilt people into buying me one.
That must be nice.
Too bad I won’t be there to feel it.
Sparkles and Poetry 