I hate birthdays.
Last year, I rang in the New Year (and my birthday) with a birthday dinner downtown and cosmic bowling. I felt like I was wearing a mask the entire night. I laughed at jokes that weren’t funny and smiled like I wasn’t thinking about my parents’ fight a few days before.
As soon as my friends went home that night, I curled up in my bed and cried. I scrolled through my phone, knowing I needed someone, anyone.
Needless to say, when my coworker asked me to cover her 3-11 shift on New Year’s Eve, I readily accepted. I enjoy my job, but also I needed an excuse to not celebrate my birthday. Nothing I did last year on birthday was what I actually wanted to do and this year, if I don’t want to have a party on my birthday, I’m not going to have a party.
I hate holidays even more.
Almost every single holiday or break is tainted with one bad memory or another.
Last year on Thanksgiving, it was my incessant crying and cutting. Winter break, my parents fought and ruined my birthday and the rest of my break.
I hate holidays.
This year, I’m being proactive about the holidays and my birthday by picking up as many hours at work as I can. As of right now, I’m suppose to work 52 hours over winter break.
Another reason I hate the holidays is because I feel like they are superficial. Everyone pretends they are happy to see each other, even if they aren’t. The adults get drunk and annoying. The children cry because they don’t get the present they wanted. It’s stupid.
So that’s why I hate holidays and birthdays.