As I sit on the train on my way to work this Monday morning, I can’t help but feel a certain level of anxiety about my birthday. Today I turn 31 years old.
The source of my apprehension does not come from the usual place of uncertainty towards my future, regrets about my past, or concerns about the dwindling amount of time and consequent reduction of options ahead of me. My anxiety stems from the fact that, unlike all the other 364 days of the year (365 on leap years), today I will be given attention that I did not seek out, request, or even earned.
Admittedly, I spend a considerable amount of time dwelling about how little time my heart believes my family and friends spend thinking of me. This is an unhealthy way to live, to say the least, but it comes from childhood experiences that time cannot erase. In this situation, awareness is my friend: I know I am an insecure person. I just hope I am getting better and better every day at focusing my energies inward as opposed to seeking approval from external sources. I can only hope.
So what does this have to do with my birthday? In one sentence, I can summarize my feelings as: I got their attention… and I still don’t feel complete. In more than one sentence: I spend my whole year trying to impress, and once a year I get a bit of what I think I want, and it turns out that it is not what I need at all. The love is genuine, but my heart doesn’t soak it in. My broken heart continues to believe it does not deserve it.
As I was writing that very sad thought on my blackberry as I walked out of the train, a large man bumped me on purpose, hitting me hard on my chest with his shoulder. When I turned to look at him, he just kept saying “don’t text while walking!” Well, happy birthday to me.
ina
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