Though many people wish me a Happy Birthday, year after year, it seems to never turn out happy. As a child, birthdays constituted as an excuse to eat out, probably at a cheap buffet or ordering take out from a fancy-schmancy restaurant. I had only two parties; both were a dud. The first one failed because I was heavily introverted. Only two friends bothered to show up. My inadequate planning as a third grader was another major factor. As for the second party, that involved my extended family, which I’m not particularly close to.

After years of unfortunate outcomes, I concluded that I am bound to have disappointment on my birthdays.

Sophomore year was the time when my older brother came back from his university and I woke up to yelling. Seeing the negativity in the house, I attempted to mediate the arguments and my parents’ anger toward my brother was now directed to me. “No one cares about your birthday, bitch,” my father said. Not long before, my mom hit my knee with a metal bat because I had failed a test. The next day, they took away my computer for “talking back” to them. Clearly, my opinions are not valued.

As for junior year, I believe that was my only pleasant birthday. Coming back from school, I was exhausted yet excited to receive a phone call from my boyfriend. In his goofy voice, he sang to me.

During my senior year, I was stricken by the burden of school, anxiety of the future, and heartbreak from a breakup. I planned to meet with a group of friends and out of the three, only one showed up. One had forgotten that she had a church meeting. As for the other, who is supposedly one of my best friends, decided that spending time with her boyfriend was more worthwhile. My only friend who visited me was a family friend and I ended up eating with her family for dinner. She told me, “I would never miss your birthday.” I was grateful to her, but dismayed at the same time.

This year, I worked an eight-hour shift. Since it was far too late for a celebration, we decided the next day would be my birthday. Another eight-hour shift had passed and it was 1 PM. Then, I came home to police cars and distress. My parents had decided to have the police escort my older brother out of the house and into a mental hospital. I spent the rest of my day calling hospitals in a nearby city. I had a headache. By 8 PM, I had found him, but my birthday was forgotten.

My birthdays tend to leave me with a bitter taste. I don’t know if I absolutely hate them. Other than money, I am usually given rather disappointing gifts. It seems like most of my friends took a brief glimpse into my personality, and presented me with something impersonal and vague instead of intimate and sincere. Personally, I wouldn’t want to give anyone anything if the gift was not well thought-out.

When I give gifts, I truly want the item to be something my loved one will always treasure. I am forever proud of myself for spoiling my best friend of six years with a Zelda inspired glow-in-the-dark fairy necklace, a natural jade turtle keychain (imported from Greece), a Tim Minchin CD, a large cow plush doll, and a Resident Evil movie/game, of course, with a card. Since her mother is like a second mom to me, I bought her silver earrings with freshwater pearls and a delicate flower design. Upon seeing the gifts, her mother cried. We departed in our different ways once the dinner was over. My friend texted me, telling me that she almost cried.

Before my family friend left for university in New York, I met up with her because I had ordered the galaxy print leggings she wanted for ages. Seeing something she had yearned for become a physical reality, she was joyful beyond words. She now dons that galaxy print wherever she goes. It feels great to create good memories.

I find myself yearning to be told how wonderful I am and thanked for being brought to the world. I want to be surprised and brought to joyful tears. I want to be enthused at the thought of celebrating my birthday. I want to see a friend take on that duty of ensuring a Happy Birthday and going great lengths for a simple cause, because it's me. I only wonder when that time will come and how many more years it will be until then.

Thinking of you, I feel a literal pain in my chest, as if a foreign object had been wedged in between the narrow confines of my chest. When I move, it twists and jolts and stings in my ribcage. A severe expression of hurt had surfaced on my face so blatantly that a few co-workers asked, "Are you okay?" I walked around monotonously to allow the air to wash away the redness in my face and restrict the water pricking at my eyes. I now remember how it is to feel despondency and selfishness. I had forgotten how to feel. It's disgusting and sick how you have ruined me.

Over-scheduling seems to be the pillar of all my problems. I am drawn to the idea of accomplishing, never dawdling and always keeping busy. No time is reserved for socialization unless I see a beneficial purpose. Having various commitments, I feel strained by my immense desire to do more.

I see people older than me and it seems like they've hit a glass ceiling. Despite their capabilities, responsibility holds them back from unlocking greater potential. I don't want to follow in their footsteps. To me, it is shameful and disappointing. I can't be like that. I have to keep scheduling. I refuse to stay here past 21.

However, I haven't practiced what I need; instead, I've pulled myself in multiple directions. It's a disservice to myself and others. Prioritize, prioritize, prioritize, I tell myself. I won't be in the same place by 21.

"I’m in love with you. Yeah, it’s that bad. You’re so beautiful to me. Shut up, let me tell you, let me. Every time I look at your face, or even remember it, it wrecks me. And the way you are with me, and you’re just fun and you shit all over me and you make fun of me and you’re real. I don’t have enough time in any day, to think about you enough. I feel like I’m gonna live a thousand years 'cause that’s how long it’s gonna take me to have one thought about you, which is that I’m crazy about you. I don’t wanna be with anybody else. I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t think about women anymore. I think about you. I had a dream the other night that you and I were on a train. We were on this train and you were holding my hand. That’s the whole dream, you were holding my hand and I felt you holding my hand. I woke up and I couldn’t believe it wasn’t real. I’m sick in love with you. It’s like a condition, it’s like polio. I feel like I’m gonna die if I can’t be with you and I can’t be with you, so I’m gonna die and I don’t care 'cause I was brought into existence to know you, and that’s enough. The idea that you would want me back? It’s like, greedy." ~Louis C.K.

"turning 20" by Caitlyn Siehl

so now you’re about to turn twenty and the world hasn’t gotten any bigger for you. you’re untouched, unloved, unprepared. your parents still pay for your gas. your friends all have internships. one of them even got cast to be in a movie. you’ve got all this talent that you don’t know how to share. you just want to fuck someone, anyone, to feel a little less like an island. the man at the McDonald’s drive-thru held both sides of your hand when he handed you your change and you cried the entire way home. skin burns. you’re about to turn twenty and you feel like you’re fifteen. you sleep for fourteen hours and still need a nap. the world is shrinking one empty heartache at a time.

you’re scared you’ll never find anyone to love you, not even well. you’ll settle for anything.

don’t.

you’re about to turn twenty and they never remind you how young that is. falling in love does not make you grow up, heartbreak does, and there is more than one way to fall apart.

you’re about to turn twenty and it’s okay if you aren’t ready. it’s okay if you aren’t ready. it’s okay.

Our routines give ourselves away. People like what is familiar and safe and widely understood. They attempt to hide themselves behind the shadow of another, yet they must cling to that last vestige of who they are or what they want to be. This appears in their words, gestures, and references. In writing, specific words can indicate a certain culture and upbringing, like one's socio-economic status or which ethnic group they belong to. Across every face is the same expression that caters to a specific role in society. It's not reinventing oneself, but mimicry by playing the same character in a show. I wonder how much people can read into me and how much they have found, and whether I was as generic as everybody else.