Note: sorry if it’s weird that this post has nothing to do with dating
Going into my birthday month this year has been bumpy to say the least (hence my lack of posting much of anything anywhere).
I had thought I was getting better at having a good relationship with my birthday but this month has absolutely kicked my ass.
I know most people don’t like the celebrates the entire month of their birthday people, lamenting, “You get ONE day, not a whole month.” But I don’t feel that way. I’ve got nothing but jealousy for someone who loves their birthday. My birthday month is filled with dread. All month long, my emotions are bubbling just under the surface. A smile on my face unless the subject hits too close and then tears threaten to loose themselves. I’ve virtually never had a good birthday and even when my mind tries to forget, my body remembers. A lump sits in my throat. I try to bring myself back to normal.
I told my mom that my birthday was a tough time for me and she said that my expectations were too high and on the one hand she’s right but also that’s just not what you want to hear—you want a hug, you want recognition of your feelings, you want someone to say I get it, it’s hard for me too.
Which is why I took to instagram to ask if others struggle during their birthdays.
In some ways, it made things a bit better to know that ya’ll struggle too (because then I’m not alone). But also, knowing how much you’re hurting just makes me hurt for you as well as me. I don’t know how to send a hug through the internet but if I could I’d send you all a thousand. I’d send you my shoulders for rest and my sleeve for tears and I’d make you laugh if I could and just sit with you if I couldn’t. I hate that we all suffer so much (and I know there’s some lesson about life in there but not today, ya know?) That said, I also read all your tender and vulnerable responses and felt that familiar feeling of not really being able to feel my feels because it felt like my troubles were so much less than some of yours that it hardly seemed warranted (my gawd ya’ll are true survivors, seriously!).
I’ll be the first to admit that I struggle with comparing struggles (or perhaps more accurately, discounting my own because others have it worse). I know this isn’t healthy. I’m working on it. Literally. This substack is me working on it in real time.
That said, not all the troubles are birthday related. In fact, most of them aren’t.
At the beginning of the month, I went with my Dad to see a neurologist and she diagnosed him with Parkinson’s. I’ve had a headache every day since (starting with a migraine that very night/into the next day). Did I mention that my dad is the literal light of my life and the reason (likely) no man will ever be good enough for me to want to share my life with them?
My older brother moved home for a month. Just a month? FTLOG (for the love of god) I hope so. I guess he had a place lined up and then someone else got it and the Vancouver rental housing market is insane etc. etc. etc. And don’t get me wrong, I love my brother deeply but we are just extremely different and that difference makes things difficult. For (just one tiny) example, last week I made a plate of food for myself for dinner (having already fed mom and dad) and because my mom wanted to help out by putting the leftovers away I made a little plate and left it on the countertop. I came back an hour later and my plate was gone. My brother had eaten it. He didn’t think to ask if it belonged to anyone. He didn’t think. He didn’t think to ask. He didn’t care to think. I’m sure it was a simple mistake but that’s the thing about mistakes with your family—you have an entire lifetime of baggage with them (because he never thinks!) I cannot stand how careless my brother is. Did I mention we also share a birthday?
My brother’s presence also dramatically affects things between my mom and I. I recently made a joke that if he and I were at the top of the stairs, and she could only save one of us, she’d throw me down the stairs in a heartbeat. It’s kind of a joke, but we (my dad, my brother, and I) also kind of know it’s true. I don’t know why. None of my mom’s friends or sisters would have any idea about the way my mom treats me (and my dad). I doubt they’d even believe it if I told them. My mom is a beam of light that everyone loves and centres around. We’ve never had a Christmas without fighting (and it’s usually because she demands I do a thousand things while my brother shows up at the same time as everyone else). She lives for giving the silent treatment. I asked her recently if she knew that that was emotional abuse and she said yes which was a real fucking shock to me let me tell ya. It’s funny how we think all moms are doing the best they can but I’m not really sure our mothers couldn’t have done a whole hell of a lot more. She has never taken my side over my brother’s (or most people’s, honestly). She loves me deeply (even when she struggles to show it). I used to think because she didn’t actively say mean shit to me on purpose and like didn’t want me to fail in life that I didn’t have much to complain about. My therapist says I’m locked in an abusive relationship with my mother but god I love her so fucking much (and also sometimes feel like I genuinely truly hate her which only makes me more furious and then sadder on her behalf because like isn’t that horrible to have me hating you that must be so difficult—so I hurt because I hurt and I hurt because I’ve projected that of course she must be hurt—but I bet she never even notices).
It’s harder to leave your mother when you only have one.
A psychiatrist once told me that it seemed like my mom was the source of all my problems. I never saw him again. I’m sure he was right but nobody talks shit about my mamma (except me) and also I was 20 and didn’t know shit. My mom is the only person I’ve ever allowed to treat me badly.
Also, if ever there was a chance to leave, that chance has passed now because I’d never leave my dad. My therapist says not to focus on the future but instead to focus on right now but I’m terrified of the dementia that is apparently coming and the anxiety and the depression that often accompanies Parkinson’s and then there’s my mom who is getting forgetful (she’s burned two things recently because she keeps turning on the broiler) and she’s fallen multiple times (knee problems) and she’s nearly too heavy (while also being too weak) for me to even help her get up. I fear the next fall is going to involve having to call 9-1-1.
I can’t leave because I don’t want my dad to be sad or scared (I swear this is why I didn’t have kids and now my parents are turning into my kids and still I struggle to validate my feelings that this (what is this? idk fucking everything I guess) is hard and sad and tough because other people have it worse, yeah?
So here we are—dad’s got parkinson’s, mom is sometimes a dick, my older brother and I are both living in our childhood home (him temporarily), no one is sleeping good, money is tight, and I’ve got non-stop headaches for no clear reason (stress, peri-menopause, barometric pressure changes, who tf knows), and I can’t think straight so the book and the substack are impossible to work on right now and I’m turning 42 and what do I even have to show for my life?!?
*has complete birthday meltdown*
But also, no one laughs harder at my stupid jokes than my mom. Like seriously, almost everyday I make her explode with laughter. Sometimes we laugh so hard we cry and struggle to catch our breath. I make my parents laugh everyday. Dad and I go for little picnics where we get egg McMuffins and coffees and sit in the parking lot at this school and talk about life. I have to help him cool his coffee down with a splash or two of my iced coffee. I drive us through the drive-thru, I order for us, I hand out the food, all the things he used to do for little kid me. He drools (a symptom of parkinson) when he’s looking down and a droplet falls from his mouth. We nearly die laughing which seems like the most beautiful thing in the world. I give them both hugs all day long. When things are good, I’m filled to the brim with love. I feel everything to excess. The sorrow, the joy, the worry, the worry, the worry.
I give my mom a hug in the morning and call her my little angel—I’m trying to love her enough to make up for what her mother couldn’t give to her and what she couldn’t and still can’t give to me. She buys me a twine holder at the dollar store because I’ve gotten into gardening and she thinks about me even when I’m not around. She doesn’t love me the way I want, but she loves me and that’s something.
I try to remember that this too shall pass and things will get better (and worse and better again), and I’ll relax and writing and work can continue and life will chug along again. I remind myself that I have degrees that I worked hard for, and I’ve written two books now, and I say things that matter to people and I am a good person who just wants to help. My therapist says that I’m gooey marshmallow and rainbows inside which seems extra funny if you’ve only ever see me rail misogynists online lol.
My therapist said to focus on the joy I have now. The laughter after the drool. The hugs in the morning. We’re all just works in progress, and as cliche as it is, the point is to keep trying (thank gawd this damn birthday month is almost over).
That’s the thing about months—if this one sucks, there’s always another one on the calendar to try again. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I guess no one does. I think that’s what being an adult is—being able to take responsibility for your shit and also knowing that we’re all just kids in grown up bodies trying to get from one day to the next.
I hope your birthday comes easy for you this year.
Oh fuck me, this essay hits too accurately, I hate my birthday. I used to like that it was close to the Fourth of July and I could celebrate it with the already-planned parties, but once I spent my 23rd birthday saying goodbye to my sister who died two days later... it was never the same. Even now 20+ years later, it's never recovered. And honestly, I don't want it to.