I hate birthdays.
It’s a terrible tradition.
It reminds me of all of the things I have not done, of all of the dreams that were not achieved, and how far I am from the person I hoped to be.
Birthdays are some ludicrous celebration of being one year closer to kicking the bucket.
I think of the person I was supposed to be, the magical image of the superhero I have in my head and the reality of the bad decisions, un achieved goals, and poor attitude that I still hold today.
Once a year I get to come face to face with the reality of who I am.
Is this where I wanted to be at 37? Was it at 25? Will it be at 50?
I think not.
This is not the point that I turn it around.
This is not the time I think of all the good things I have.
This time, being grateful, having perspective, and being happy about what I have done does not seem to be enough.
I’m am miserable on my birthday.
But, it’s my birthday, so I can be whatever the hell I want to be.
The misery, the angst, the anger, and the self-loathing get to be my gift to myself today.
They remind me that, despite my mistakes, I still get another chance.
They let me know, for every time I take a step back into the dark parts of my mind, that I listen to the self-doubt, that I buy into the idea that I’m not good enough.
I have made it another year.
The voices, the choices, and the monsters are still under the bed…
But the motherfuckers haven’t got me yet.