So, I’ve always had a weird relationship to birthdays. When I was very little, I was thrilled about them just like anyone else. And when I look at my third birthday picture in particular, its one of the few photos where I truly see *me*. A little girl with a bucket hat and winnie the pooh overalls and a big balloon smiling wide in a picture—my blond hair is even still somewhat long, before the medium-length inquisition began.
I have no memories of that birthday. Knowing my family, knowing I was three, we probably just got a cookie cake and spent time with family. But that sounds nice, doesn’t it?
As my memory got better and the years went on, things got… complicated.
For my eighth birthday, we had a Halloween costume party. My parents left roughly twelve girls to the basement because they were being the “cool parents”. The idea was to give us freedom. Instead, I became the closest thing to an adult. I had to console one girl while she cried, get people to not fight over candy, figure out where people went when suddenly they started leaving the basement and wandering elsewhere. My birthday turned into a lesson on people management. Not about me. At some point I was the girl crying on the steps.
By the time I was ten or eleven, I stopped asking for birthday parties entirely. Even refused them.
My mother was always a very good present-giver, but my grandfather on the other hand seemed to pick gifts to purposefully spite me. Makeup. Pink hairbrushes. Ring holders. For the short period I was into dolls, the *wrong* kind of dolls that I didn’t even play with. He chose the more girly ones. All the feminine frills I lacked, as if it was his personal job to impress those upon me instead of books, money, hell, nothing would’ve been better. I told my mom as such. It was never about the money—and horrifically, he did spend a fair bit of money on everything, so a nice bit of waste guilt for me when I always eventually threw them out—it was about thought. And there was this growing, insidious feeling that even on my birthday, the one day a year people say is really about you, that it wasn’t fully. That it was but also not. That I had to work in a set amount of parameters to not get hurt. No parties, but maybe a movie date with friends. No expectations for grandpa, just pretend you got nothing. I began playing this little game with myself, that it was a good birthday if it didn’t snow before it. Like that was the one thing the day hinged on. As if a lack of snow before November 4th could fix it.
Then, when I stopped talking to my parents, birthdays got stranger. Because now one of the few things my mom did that made me feel seen—the thought she put behind gifts—that was gone. All the complicated confusion about the day didn’t even get the softer end of it, it was just this void. I tried to compensate by going all out for my birthdays after that. I went to my grandma’s house for my 25th and spent time with her and my aunt, when I was still talking to my aunt. That night I got an hour long lecture about how my mental illness was hard on my parents, too. As if them struggling with my health discounted all the times they disregarded it. As if them being scared changed the fact if *I* had not fought so hard for me that their actions would’ve left me dead. I remember one of my repeated lines from that night, that my spouse thankfully was there to repeat, was that if my parent’s actions were that of a friend or a partner, everyone would tell me to leave them. To move on. But because they were my parents their negligence and disregard was supposed to be okay and forgiven. And I couldn’t.
The next birthday, my grandma came to me. But it had its own pitfalls. Some of it sounds silly. My grandma accidentally blocked up my sink pipes. We didn’t actually get to go to my favorite brunch place. A couple of my friends forgot my birthday. They thought it was the next day, and I don’t blame them, but when my mother sometimes got my birthday wrong because she would mix the day of the month with my dead brother, to the point that my health insurance was wrong for an entire year because of it… I can be touchy about somebody saying my birthday is November 5th.
And my brother forgot, too. Didn’t mention it for two months. Wouldn’t have mentioned it at all if I didn’t tell me how it hurt. He didn’t really apologize, either.
So, yeah. The past 2-3 years I’ve just been trying to fight for birthday neutrality. Not expecting a big thing, but try to have an alright day. Try to make it through. Try to not let the pain of years gone by hit me and instead find little joys. It can be hard, because I tend to feel this sinking weight in me on the day. My therapist calls it a sort of seasonal memory, like how someone’s moods can feel off on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. But mine is my birthday, which sometimes feels a little pathetic. But I also try not to say that too much, either.
Today, we played my new favorite video game for a few hours. Constructed myself an ice cream pie. Made an egg and cheese quesadilla. I’m going to go walk my dogs soon. Have some really good Mexican food. My grandma hasn’t called yet, but I’m going to try to call her. My brother remembered this year, even if he hasn’t said sorry.
My friends texted. Family texted. My MIL gave me a hug.
Birthdays are still complicated, but hopefully in ten years I’ll have fought bit by bit to lose the part that sinks inside me. Or at least have collected enough good things to outweigh it.
Happy 29th, guys.
Steph Roehler 
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