Birthdays
Ugh not again
Date: February 22nd
Time: 1:30am
Send to: mw.petri@kpnmail.nl
Hi Dad. I’m leaving for DC in 6 hours and can’t sleep. This is new — you know what a “big sleeper” I am. But now, A.G. (after grief), a few times a week I can’t fall asleep. My mind races, fills with words, demands I spit them out. I realize while writing this you get it, since most of the lengthy emails you sent me were after 1am in Holland.
Tonight I think the book I finished reading is to blame. It was great. So great that I miss the characters already. It ends at their dad’s funeral, which is complicated, because he was barely present in the characters’ lives, and when he was, it was rarely pleasant. Initially I didn’t feel much more than a tug of empathy for my fictitious friends, but then, an hour after turning out the lights, I’m wide awake. And 10 min later, I’m writing to explain that I finally realize why birthdays make me sad now.
Grief is wild. And so far the revelations have only come in unexpected, and usually inconvenient moments. But the dots are connecting — right now.
I guess I need to take a step back and admit something you wouldn’t want to know. Or, maybe it’s that I don’t want you to know. But you’re dead now. So I might as well be honest.
My birthday makes me depressed. I know! It’s our special day. But I have another confession: I only ever liked it because of how much you liked it. It’s always brought me more stress than excitement. Because I was sure that everyone would forget. Which then meant that anyone who forgot didn’t really love me. And now I have to deal with that all because of this stupid day.
Anyway — for the last several years, approximately three weeks before my birthday, my anxiety takes it up a notch and starts to get especially vocal. And it tell me that it’s time to go.
Look at flights to Miami, I hear for the third year in a row, only the ocean will fix this.
I roll my eyes at the lack of creativity within my own psyche and ignore the suggestion. The poke becomes more of a shove.
You need to leave.
I ignore the suggestion another week. The shove becomes a panicked shake.
RUN! THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE YOU HAVE TO FORGET THAT BIRTHDAYS MAKE YOU SAD NOW!
It all started with my 26th birthday. It was the first time I let myself listen to that unmooring intuition. The one that tends to know outcomes that I’m not ready to accept. And it was telling me that this was our last birthday together. And in a way it was. Because it was the last one you would be able to remember. I chose this little Italian spot under the bridge in Chinatown. You asked me the same question too many times, my stomach sunk a little lower with each repetition. I held back tears because I wasn’t comfortable crying in public back then. And because I didn’t want you to see that something was wrong. I didn’t want you to be sad. Or scared. I couldn’t bear to see the brightest, lightest person in my world, sad or scared.
So there you have it. I knew every birthday from there would only get more painful. But lucky me! My mind found a solution — run away!
My 27th birthday was the first one you would forget to call. I fly to Austin for my first SXSW. What could be a better distraction than an inflated sense of self importance!
My 28th birthday I was much more strategic. You can’t be forgotten if you don’t allow yourself to be! I fly to Amsterdam. I find out that reminding you why I’m there might be just as painful. But then, the guilt comes. For devaluing your special day. Fine, I’ll try not to hate it.
My 29th birthday, the 3rd year you wouldn’t call, but the 1st time I felt it. No one could leave. So I booked my first Reiki session, to take me somewhere, leave me with levity. Instead I got 3 hrs of uncontrollable sobbing. I think I hate this day?
My 30th: a milestone, they say. Well it was. It was the last birthday you would be alive for. I booked a last minute trip to Florence because, while planning my escape route, your signature smirk popped in my head. Our spot. After a perfect pasta at our secret spot and one last bite of tiramisu I think I may have turned this day around. Until I remember you should be there too and my tears dampen the sidewalk. Because despite my best efforts, birthdays make me sad now.
A few days after my 30th birthday we shared Pistachio-filled chocolates and I told you stories I needed to believe that you understand. What I didn’t tell you is that I haven’t learned how to do birthdays without you yet.
My 31st birthday made that very clear. And now, a few weeks before my 32nd, I feel that familiar urge to go. To run before I get the reminder that you aren’t here to make March 9th feel like the most special day of the year. Seconds after typing “how to get to Bora Bora,” I realize it doesn’t matter where I go. Because I’m already sad. Really, painfully sad.
So I stay instead. Does that make me a more evolved version of myself? One who is making space to tolerate the intolerable? That sounds nice. Maybe I’ll get there. For now, I’ll try to be proud of myself for realizing that what I’m running from will always catch up. And to laugh at the irony — my entire life I’ve been worried that no one would remember my birthday. Turns out, only one person’s memory was holding it all together.