Fear of a day only increases fear of… umm… the day itself. Or perhaps I should say, fear of the fear of the day only increases the actual fear of being afraid. Or something.
The thing is, I know that fear of birthdays is irrational, that getting older is inevitable, that all those in favor of desperately trying to hold on to their youth should be mocked, and that I, unlike so many others, am actually still in possession of said youth. But for me, fear of birthdays does not come from a fear of getting older, decaying physically, and eventually ending up as a rotting corpse in the ground. Instead, my particular fear of November the fifth comes from the inescapable realization that I have let myself down yet again. If birthdays are a celebration of life lived and things experienced, than it is only natural that I should view this birthday as a time for grief and mourning.
Too dramatic? Maybe… but in order to defend my point, here is a little year in review:
1. I developed an impossible crush on an impossible boy
2. He no longer speaks to me.
3. Am knowingly pathetic for consenting to care about numbers 1 and 2, and for putting them at the top of this list, which is shameful.
4. I got myself “temporarily dismissed” from community college for having too many classes dropped and an absolutely abysmal GPA.
5. I rid myself of the only two friends I had left in the continental US.
6. I failed to find any new friends.
7. I still have yet to find what it is that I really want to do in life… at least within the realm of reason.
8. I am completely bored with my life and myself at least 70% of the time.
And yes, I realize that I am still alive and that that in and of itself is something to celebrate. But really, I just don’t feel that there is any real reason for my being here… so to celebrate a year of shattered illusions, regret and listlessness… well, it honestly seems just a little bit morbid.
But you are still welcome to wish me a happy birthday.