I Hate Birthdays
My twisted relationship with birthday celebrations.
I grew up in a very strict religious household that made birthdays seem evil. To my parents, birthdays were for selfish people. You were not a real Christian if you celebrated them. They always framed it as a personal choice, but people who celebrated birthdays within that religion were often looked down upon.
Nevertheless, I always cried when I couldn’t attend my best friend’s birthday parties as a child. The older I got, though, the deeper I became involved in the religion, and I stopped wanting to celebrate birthdays altogether. The idea of celebrating felt tainted to me.
I remember when I first moved to the United States; it was a couple of weeks before my birthday. On my birthday, my aunt decided to get me a cake and candles, and since we were living with her, my dad gave me permission to participate as a sign of respect. Before I went upstairs, he told me, “Don’t sing the song, and don’t blow on the candles to wish for anything.” To him, any wishing or manifesting went against God. He thought wishing on a candle was akin to worshipping it — I understood his point of view. Nonetheless, I blew out the candles anyway. I didn’t wish for anything, though. I had never done this before and didn’t know what to wish for.
When I entered middle school, we had birthday celebrations. Everyone would bring treats and drinks for the whole class on their birthdays. On my birthday, I would lie to my parents about the reasons I needed to bring treats to class. I always claimed it was for a class party and that everyone was bringing their own treats, too. To this day, I’m not sure if they actually believed me or if they knew what was happening and just let me get away with it. Maybe they didn’t want me to feel left out. I was already the new, strange girl from Africa. Maybe they didn’t want me to feel like more of an outcast than I already did.
My dad always made these situations feel like life or death, as if a little girl having a small birthday party would make God furious at him for not teaching me better. Quite frankly, I think God has bigger things to worry about, but I digress.
I say all this to explain that my views on birthday celebrations have always been skewed. I always secretly wanted to celebrate my birthday, but it always came with a side of guilt.
I remembered to pray for forgiveness every time, but I kept doing the same thing again. This ate me up inside. I wasn’t stupid — I was actually very smart and too aware for my age. I knew that “sinning” and praying it away was counterproductive, especially because I knew I would commit the act beforehand. It wasn’t a mistake; I wanted a birthday. I wanted to feel celebrated. I wanted to have fun.
Carrying guilt over such small things at a young age was not healthy for me. It caused a lot of anxiety and depression later in life, things I still struggle with today. I think, sometimes, things are taken too seriously within this religion.
After I left the cult at 19, I decided to start celebrating my birthday. On my 20th birthday, I got myself a cake and sparkling apple cider — it made me feel grown-up, haha!
I had just finished my first semester of sophomore year in university and felt I deserved to celebrate. The guilt still lingered, though. I knew my parents would be disappointed. On my 21st birthday, the guilt started to wear off. I had a dinner and a sleepover party and wore the prettiest red dress. I felt like a queen.
I think that was the only good birthday I’ve ever had. It was also the last birthday I received a card and a text from my grandmother. She had started getting sick with cancer. After many surgeries, things still weren’t looking good. On my 22nd birthday, I didn’t receive a text or a card. That’s when I knew things had gotten bad.
We share the same birthday month, and I decided to fly out to New York shortly after my birthday to see her. I saw how much control she had lost. My superhero wasn’t immortal after all. I had to help her drink water, go to the bathroom, and even answer phone calls. She died shortly afterward.
Now, birthdays come with so many expectations. I try not to compare my life to people on the internet, but sometimes it’s hard not to. This year, I’m turning 25, and I’m dreading it. Dreading it to the point where I wish I didn’t have a birthday at all.
This year has been very hard for me. I’ve struggled mentally and financially. All my plans fell apart. Absolutely nothing went my way, and because of that, I pushed everyone away. I isolated myself from the world. I distanced myself from my closest friends and family. I think I even call my parents less now.
Turning 25 is supposed to be a big deal, right? I’m supposed to go all out, but I don’t have the desire — or the finances — to do so. I don’t even want anyone to wish me a happy birthday. I haven’t felt like a good friend or daughter, and I don’t feel like I deserve it.
I feel completely out of my body. I feel numb. I want to disappear.
