Note: This post went up late due to unavoidable, if not necessarily unforseeable, circumstances.
Despite my best efforts I find it rather difficult to muster the expected elation at my twenty first birthday. Truth be told, I find myself feeling mostly quite bitter about the whole affair.
There are, I think, a few different reasons for this, but they all come back to the same thing: a knowledge that this isn’t really on my terms. I mean that both in the acute sense, that I have been too sick and busy and friendless to arrange the Gatsbyesque birthday bash that I think I deserve, the notion of which I have frequently entertained myself, and the larger sense that I fear that my life is not living up to its potential.
The first concern is compounded by the knowledge that I haven’t had a proper birthday party since I was hospitalized on my eighteenth birthday, and had to cancel all planned events. This wasn’t the first time that birthday celebrations for me have had to be rescheduled; my birthday seems to come at a rather awkward time of year given how my health usually plays out. In fact, I struggle to remember whether it was even the first year I missed having a proper birthday party. But being both in the hospital on my actual birthday, and unable to have a proper celebration afterwards, stung.
I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that feels shortchanged. After all, what good is a birthday without having other people make a big fuss over oneself? Especially a big milestone like eighteen. But it’s not gifts that I miss. After all, almost anything that it would occur to me to require from birthday presents I can easily buy for myself, or even wait until Christmas.
I do miss my friends: by eighteen, I had just about weeded out the people that I earnestly enjoyed from the people I had been obliged to tolerate through high school, and after that birthday most everyone started off on their different ways for college, and I have seen very little of them. But what I truly feel robbed of is the milestone; the opportunity to have something to look back on, tell stories about, and compare with other people’s eighteenth birthdays. In this respect, being in the hospital on my eighteenth birthday was just the then-latest in a long line of derailed plans and broken dreams.
By that time, the high school had already dropped the ball hard enough that after four years of attending I was still four years behind, despite testing as gifted and above my class level on their own tests intended to label me with a learning disability. So it was clear I wasn’t going to get to graduate alongside my friends, or follow them off to college, or get out of the toxic environment of that school. I’ve not had a birthday party with all of my friends since, and probably never will. Nor have I made other friends.
Even if I did, what would I do? I can’t go out drinking on my twenty first birthday because alcohol conflicts with my medication. And in any case, I lack the stamina and constitution for a proper night on the town. I’m already on the brink of missing classes because of my health. No, I don’t get to have a normal birthday, just like I don’t get to have a normal life. I don’t get to choose or plan how or when I celebrate.
Of course, I do still celebrate, even when I sometimes fail to see the point. Even when I quietly, or in some cases, not so quietly, question whether there is in fact anything to celebrate, or indeed any point at all in continued effort, despite my apparently better judgement, I continue. Some have said that this is courage or nobility, or some other virtue. Truth be told, I think it’s mostly stubbornness.
Anyways, happy birthday to me.
