No one likes you when you’re 23, but no one remembers you when you’re 24

Birthdays used to mean so much to me up until I hit the age of 17. It was such a thrill to have your little friends come to your parties at the bowling alley or at your local McDonald’s with the playground- everything was simple and carefree then. You’d all get ice cream together and everyone was entitled to a goodie bag full of cute treats and cheap toys, and one cared in those years because it was all about having fun together. It was a celebration of one but to share it with one another. We all just wanted to have fun together- to enjoy each other’s company and the events that unfolded in front of us. There was no stress, no tears, and no pain- just content.

Fast-forward to when I turned 17. My 16th birthday was a wreck; I had been grounded for something (that I cannot recall) and I was a wreck when I had my picture taken for my license. When I turned 17 I only wished for my death. My depression was at an all-time high- I stopped eating, I stopped caring, and I stopped studying in high school and allowed myself to drown into my mental illness. In a sick sense, I had found comfort in it, for I was so used to feeling so low I couldn’t picture myself feeling anything other than depression. I confided to my bed and locking myself in my room, only wishing that tomorrow would happen sooner. All I wanted for this birthday was to sleep and to be left alone. However, as some of us know, family likes to intercept our wishes.

My 19th birthdays was a train wreck. The person I had been dating at the time was physically and mentally abusive, manipulative and controlling, and I wasn’t able to escape until after the day they left me. I begged for death within that year. I was lost and trying to find myself whilst trying to protect myself and to make sure I wasn’t going to die by the hands of someone I thought loved me. My world was crumbling as was I. I was fearful that I would die by neglecting myself more so than under her hands. I haven’t been able to look at car keys or lighters the same since, yet I use each every single day up until now. The day that she left was like God smacking me in the face, proclaiming that I was finally free- that I was able to breathe again. I started eating more, I started going out more and talking to what friends I did. My life had spiraled and I thought that it would only get better from there. God, GOD was I so wrong (to an extent).

Press play onto my 21st birthday. Within the two year time span between my 19th and 21st, I had tried to kill myself multiple times. I can still see my best friend’s face, still see her son’s face, and still feel the regret, remorse and hurt up to this day. I can never wash away the feelings and expressions that my mother showed when she helped me. I refuse to forgive myself and (if you’re reading this) I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Those two years had been a whirlwind of emotions and thinking; a time of trying to find out what was best for me and those around me. Essentially, it was a compromise (at the time) that I could never be able to commit to. My 21st, however, was not a milestone like others. I was not excited to drink, I was not excited to change my license or be able to get a whiskey and coke whenever I pleased. I celebrated my 21st because I was shocked that I was still alive. I never thought that I would be alive to be 21 when I was seventeen years old. I never pictured myself getting that far into college or even being able to handle life up until that age. My entire perspective on birthdays was changed within that very day. I was sitting in my bacteriology class, and I wrote myself a letter to myself on how I felt about my birthday while my professor talked about bacteria and its effects on human anatomy. And, at that time, I was so proud of myself for feeling so alive, for feeling so connected to myself and for thinking that I was capable on continuing on.

Fast forward to now, March 28th, 2017. I am 24 today. I’ve, internally, laughed all day because I keep thinking of Blink-182 and their song that sings about being 23. But no one, no one, talks about being 24. A month before today, I took my birthday off of every social media website/app that I could think of. A part of me wanted to see if anyone remembered, and the other part of me knew that I truly didn’t give one fuck about today. It’s almost 6pm and I still feel so empty, yet I feel so disgusting at the same time. No one is obligated to do anything for me and I am not obligated to do anything for anyone. I do not expect anyone to do or say anything, nor do I wish anyone to do so just because I wrote this (So, please, please don’t. If you forget or didn’t know that’s okay. I am NOT expecting anything. Please don’t say anything.) Yet, I still feel like I’m spiraling back- back to where I wish I was sleeping, because that’s the only time where I don’t have to speak or see anyone. Perhaps I am bitter. Perhaps I am craving attention, yet I will never speak up on when I do want attention. Maybe, just maybe, this is how my life is to unfold. If you, somehow, got to the end of this, I thank you for reading into my depression.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope you are excited for this day when it comes to be your time. I hope that you are happy and content, that you feel complete (even it’s only for a minute), that you can genuinely smile, that you are able to celebrate with those that you love and those that love you. That you can simply say, on your day, that you are happy for this day that is yours. Please do you, please do what you love. Hell, go kiss a stranger, go out and take a walk, go write, go pour your hurt into some music, cry to your favorite songs, binge on a cake and a bottle of wine to yourself, write to yourself, clean- just do something to make yourself. It’s your day. YOUR day. Every day of the year is yours, but this is yours written in all caps, bold, underline, and 24-pint size font.

Take care of yourself, okay?