Happy fucking birthday

So yes,  yesterday was  my birthday.  June the 18th. I purposefully keep the date  relatively private such as keeping it invisible on Facebook etc.

Do I have issues about getting older?  Am I one of  those woman?

Not really. That’s not really it.

I find birthdays horrendously anticlimatic.  It’s difficult to even begin to explain my mentality on the subject without sounding like a petulant little diva.

As emo and self obsessed as this entry may read it’s not contrived or exaggerated. This is real; inside my head. This is mental illness. This is me.

I started yesterday crying, alone.  I ended the day crying, alone.   Not the little tantrum tears but the thick ugly snotty ones that stick in your throat and suck all the air from your body until you have to gasp and choke before you shove your fist back into your gob to keep some semblance of silence. 

Birthdays represent growth, progress and celebration.   A day of feeling and indeed being special.

I don’t feel worthy of celebration.  I’m incapable of being special.

Once upon a time birthdays were preceded by days or even weeks of planning.  Shopping trips and lunch dates planned and evening  celebrations  anticipated .

There was zero chance of escaping it because you had your people and they made it their job to make your birthday.  You had zero chance of wanting to avoid it because you were someone.

But what about when you don’t have your people? What if you’re not someone; only nobody?

What if you don’t really exist?

What if you get to 34 and there’s nobody to call to do lunch.   There’s no cards besides the mandatory relatives.    There’s nobody close enough to know what the day even is unless facebook tells them evoking a lovely stream of kind and well intentioned messages that people feel obliged to write because facebook told them to.  You don’t want people to feel obligated.

What if you’re petrified by how with each passing year you fade more and more. You become less and less.

You’ve broken all your promises.  You’ve forgotten how to dream. You realise hope is the gate to  disappointment.

Yet time is ticking.  Another year has gone by.  You’re numb and terrified by what you’ve become.  Struck dumb by your increasing evaporation of self. You don’t know who you are anymore. You doubt you’re anyone at all. You’re going to die being this nothing.  One day.

You’re not who you were supposed to be. You’re not where you were supposed to be. This isn’t the life you were supposed to have.

& time is ticking.

You’re invisible outside of your abode. You’re neither affecting nor effecting anyone or anything. 

Your soul is fingerprintless.

You could disappear. Right here. Right now.  Just walk away;  vanish.  The only people that would know are in your abode.

You realise you’re not good for them. You let them down.  Yet you stay because you may be not be someone yet at least with them you’re something.  For now. 

They don’t know you’re just a ghost, yet.

You never have money bar this once stupid day.  Once upon a time you would have spent it in seconds.   It’s rotting in your purse.  Some loaned out and some in the kitty for groceries.   You don’t feel entitled to it.

If you buy yourself something the guilt erodes the pleasure.  Why did you buy this?  You don’t need it.  You don’t deserve it. So you backpedal and sell it. You either treat the family to take away because then you’ve not technically spent it on yourself or else bit by bit you feed it into the household pot for bog roll and bread.

You don’t even want anything.  Because you’re not anyone and nobody needs nothing.  It’s not that cute masochism thing you genuinely don’t want anything.  Nothing interests you.  Nothing excites you. Nothing moves you.  You see pretty things and quirky things that people in your mind would like such as that girl you used to be or one of the images in your head of who you’d like to be.

But the you? The actual you?  There’s nobody there.  You have no interests.  You go nowhere. Do nothing. Know noone. No hobbies or passions.  No defining taste or quirks or wants. Everything is blank. Hollow.

There is nothing there. Nobody inside.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

To realise you’re vacant.  Empty.  Nothing. 

It’s not an emo moment.  It’s a real life god damned realisation.  You don’t know who you are. You have no identity. Your soul evacuated. You’re just a shell. There’s nobody home.  Nothing inside.

You have no concept nor essence of self.

& you’re scared.

& time’s ticking.

The multiple faceless you’s in your head that nobody else can see are dressed up and fleshed out ready to try on. They’re not big enough though; to cover the nothingness.  These are the mannequins that you try and be. You give them opinions, style, passions. They never quite fit though.  Not really. They’re heavy and exhausting and full of holes. But if you move slow enough and keep your eyes down people won’t see through them. You can fake it. 

It’s exhausting.

& time’s ticking.

You don’t let anyone close enough to see. It’s not arrogance or aloofness.  You have nothing to offer them.  Nothing to give.  Keep them away and they won’t have to know that you’re nobody.

You’d be lonely.  Excruciatingly lonely. You would;  if you were someone.

She’s looking at you.  They all are. The different you’s inside that you pretend to be. She’s crying.  They all are.

But it’s your birthday.  Or her’s.  Or their’s. You don’t even know anymore.  But it’s all fake. All wrong.  Only people have birthdays.  You wish you were people,  If only for one day.  But you’re not. So it’s pointless and meaningless. It becomes the one day when you refuse to pretend to be someone.  And nobody can see. Nobody even notices. That there’s nobody home.

You’re empty.

& time’s ticking.

Another year, wasted away.

& you’re scared.

& angry.

& disappointed

You spend the day snapping and sniping and withdrawing to try and stop the tears.

Until the day passes.  Until the reminder that you’re failing at existence is over. 

Until next year.

Because time is ticking.

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