I am now a quarter of a century old. I may have also gotten chastised for not bringing up the fact to a few people.
I’ve never really seen my birthday as a reason for my own celebration. It’s always been something for other people. I never really asked to be born… so what’s the point in keeping track of all the years since it happened? Maybe that’s the nihilist in me taking over, I don’t know. After all, I could very well use my birthday as a means to celebrate another year without dying. Then again, that sort of idea is a hard one to pride myself in when this month is always the hardest for me to cope with.
Still, twenty-five years is something I guess I should be impressed by. As someone who was almost certain I wouldn’t make it to twenty at one point, it’s…something.
Man, fuck this. I want to be able to write again, but I literally have eleven drafts stored up here on WordPress because I keep starting up and stopping blogs. I start up because I want to write, but I stop because everything comes out stilted and forced, like I’m trying to break down a barrier that I’ve lifted up in my head. And it’s because I have. I could wax poetic all I want about birthdays and life and hope, but I don’t feel a damn thing about it. Instead, I’m just impressed that by removing my birthday from Facebook, I have, in fact, proven to myself that that piece of shit social media service does nothing but make you feel obligated to a friends’ list of people you intend to keep in touch with but never really feel compelled to.
I don’t give a shit about birthday wishes. It’s why I removed the damn date to begin with. But seeing how such a select few people sought out my page to say something compared to what used to be upwards of 90 people typing out generic messages of happy wishes reminds me of the very important people I have lost over the years. How I moved out to Austin with a limited support system because so many saw me leaving as nothing more than a romantic escape. No regard for the possibility of it relating to my health, no acknowledgement that I intended to make a career out here.
I don’t care that people don’t remember my birthday. It’s just a little hard to be reminded that few want to keep in touch to begin with. Communication and friendships are a two-way street, and I’ve not held up my end of that road perfectly…but those I did put effort into rarely met me halfway. It’s not worth it to overextend myself for people like that, I know…but it’s still tough to look at.
I am grateful for those who still reach out to me. Those who know how hard it is for me to make the effort of saying hi by saying something first are the ones who I will never let go of. I am very thankful for that. I’m just struggling with the rest at the moment… I’ll stop caring again eventually.