Many of you have wished me a happy birthday today, for which I am grateful. Birthdays are hard for me. Not because I'm getting older or closer to dying. I've always been happy to have a birthday to get my physical age to closer match what I feel is the age of my soul. Birthdays are hard because they are supposed to be happy. And they're not. And that makes me feel guilty. My birthday screams "you should be happy!" and all day I listen and wonder why I'm not.
My inner child loves all of the attention from people wishing me happy birthday. The shadow of the child I once was is constantly begging to be validated and praised. I've had a really difficult time figuring out how to be a friend as an adult. I struggle between craving attention and needing alone time. I'm an introvert who has mostly figured out how to behave like an extrovert in public. I only truly feel comfortable being around and talking to other humans when I'm around kids. I love that they are genuine. They will tell you exactly what they are thinking and what they want you to do differently. With adults I constantly feel like I'm playing a guessing game. I want to make the other adults in my life happy, but I'm always paranoid that the people I am surrounded by aren't telling me all the things I do that bother them. And that fuels my social anxiety.
I really should be happy. I have been blessed with three beautiful, healthy, loving children. A fiercely loyal and devoted husband who treats me like a queen. I'm so lucky to live here in a small town that I love, surrounded by family, friends, and an amazing community. We are so lucky to live in a beautiful two story house with a two car garage and a spacious backyard in a quiet, safe neighborhood with kind neighbors all around. Maybe it's hard to have all these things while simultaneously harboring the disturbing sensation in the pit of my stomach that I don't deserve any of it.
I can't handle my life. Maybe I shouldn't have had so many children. I wanted them more than anything, but I'm finding that I don't measure up to the challenge of mothering three small children and maintaining the 1300 square foot home they romp around in all day.
My 25th birthday was probably the worst one. I was extremely suicidal that day, a tragic irony because I was supposed to be celebrating being alive. This year, 27 doesn't feel much better. I don't know how to fix it. I feel like a tiny curl of butter that is trying to be spread across a football field of bread. I'm failing at everything I do in some way. Taking on too much while not doing enough at the same time.
Anyway, sorry to put a damper on your day with my depressing thoughts. I will try to pretend to be happy for you because I know that's what you want me to be. I hope you have a happy June 4th.
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