Today (yesterday by the time this is posted) is my birthday. I normally don’t give a shit even though I no longer hate it. I care much more about my re-birthday (the day of my medical crisis), but as I said to Ian (who wished me a happy birthday and said he knew I cared more about my re-birlthday), I would not have a re-birthday if I didn’t have my birthday. I got several sweet messages, which warmed my heart. For the first time in ages, I didn’t actually dread my birthday. I talked to K for hours, which really did my heart and soul good. She is my soul sibling, and we connect on so many levels. I talked to my parents (fine), and my Taiji teacher sent me a nice message, too. And, much to my surprise, my brother’s GF sent me an email as well.
I have no idea how she knew! My brother doesn’t even wish me a happy birthday every year. Honestly, I’m not sure he knows what day it is exactly. I figured the way it came up was this. Anyone who knows me well knows that my re-birthday is more important to me. I celebrate it and mention it way more than my actual birthday (which is ZERO for the latter). I consider myself three-and-a-half years old rather than fifty….four? Yeah, that’s how old I am now. Where the hell has the time gone? The reason I’m not sure is because sometime around the beginning of the year, I add another year to my age. Why? No idea. So I’m never really sure how old I am. In Taiwanese culture, you’re one at birth, so that might be part of it? Dunno.
I used to hate my birthday because it reminded me of all the ways I’ve failed in life. Another year of futility. Yay. That’s so great. The only funny thing is that wehn I joined Facebook, you had to put your birthday and it was displayed no matter what. There was no way around it. So I put a fake birthday–some random day in January. Then I immediately forgot about it–until that day rolled around. I got dozens of happy birthdays on my Facebook wall, which tickled me immensely.
Once Facebook took away that requirement (that it had to be public), I put the real date–I think? Anyway, I stopped hating it a few years before my medical crisis. I became truly neutral about it (not studied neutral like I had been about my body, which meant not neutral at all), but I wasn’t positive. Now, I’m just grateful that I have people in my life who love me. No, I still don’t care about my actual birthday, but I care that other people care about me.
It lifted me, I will admit. To have that many people wish me a happy birthday, I mean. Well, except for my parents. That’s much more complicated, but I don’t want to talk about it because I don’t want to bring down my mood.