Older, but hardly any wiser

When my birthday came I had anticipated entirely the worst. When it didn't come, I felt like I was left hanging. Like when someone asks to be your friend and it doesn't come with a punchline this time. The highlights were: my cat crawling in bed with me in the early hours of the morning, warming me first inside, then out. Seeing my nana who was also having her birthday, I am greatful to be able to share this with her; it is reminiscent of dividng the last scoop of icecream between two, or sharing a far too small blanket. Having dinner at a dive bar with my family and playing The Beatles pinball machine.

Every year my brother manages to say something equally devastating as sweet. Last time it was "I miss you when I'm gone," this year it was "I hope when I see you next we can get some drinks together," every time I feel both betrayed and like I have betrayed him. He should never have left and I should never have grown. The audacity of time for ruining what we had in our little family hurts almost as much as the thought that it could have stayed that way.
I try to enjoy my birthday. I truly, truly do. In my heart of hearts I wish more than anything that I still looked forward to my birthday. It seems like all I ever do these days is look backwards.
I feel lucky to be acknowledged on my birthday, like I don't see it coming. I expect transgression and it hurts when it comes. Maybe more so than if I hadn't taken the time to prepare myself for it. Last year, there was no cake waiting for me with candles or "Happy Birthday!" in cursive font. I know this is entirely too small of a detail. It hurt me so terribly I couldn't breathe. I was ashamed, felt so vain for relying on a custom to base my self worth.

I debated for days what to say here about my birthday. I was so prepared to write my regular SadPost™ from my bedroom at 2 in the morning the day after, but instead here I am at 10 PM (2200 military time) five days later in my living room. Jazz is playing and I am wearing my mum's hoodie and soft, new pyjama pants. This year, there was a cake. This year, there was music and drinks and laughter and I enjoyed myself almost too much. I am glad I didn't stop myself from enjoying it. I liked the shitty food at the shitty bar, and the overly sweet passion fruit cocktail with a somewhat promiscuous or wanton name. I liked the way I knew what half of my presents were going to be because my sister has never been good at keeping secrets.

Expectations. Expectations and how they create me. A new year comes with new expectations, internal and external. I can't say whether I will meet them or not, the same way I shouldn't have pre-percieved how my day would go. All I know, and all I have learnt is I will continue to show up for myself the same way I did yesterday, and will tomorrow. Right now, I am happy and growing and that is all I could ever have asked of myself. If you told me I would become an adult, I don't know how I would have reacted. Maybe at 5 I'd be shocked, at 10 I'd cry, at 15 I'd stare blankly. It has always been out of reach, inconceivable. And yet, here I am.
Thanks for reading. Sorry this one is a bit longer.