Ugh, my birthday
Guess what, I don't care about my birthday. For long I have given up on it. The past six years it used to mark the start of a nearly 70-day waiting period. Like a painfully slow race, more of a never-ending drip, steadily chirping away some of my emotional strength and facade. When I was married, my birthday used to be the only day we went out (my husband didn't care much for babysitters). We started dating a couple of days after I turned 18. Going out for dinner on my birthday was also a celebration of our union. After he died, my birthday marked the period of intense grieving I revisited, culminating with a flight to our old home country to lay down flowers on his grave. Covid put a halt to this practice. Last year I felt that I can finally look at this period between September and November with more clarity and less pain. A friend said I just need to make "new memories". This year, I wanted to not work, maybe read a book on the beach. All the kids would be back in school. It would be my first day alone - at least until 14:30 - and I wanted to enjoy every second of it. Now I have 3 kids, still sick enough with chicken pox to stay away from school, but healthy enough to play wild games and energy to discuss over stuff. So that put a huge dent into my plans. All plans canceled. Can we just forget about it?
Maybe I'm just not used that a celebration is only about me?