I celebrated my 17th birthday yesterday.
I sat down looking at my Earl Grey cake, (my mother had to pry out of me a cake choice for probably a good 30 minutes, only to pick what she wanted) the candle flames flickering on the wet of my eyes, watching intently at the slow wax dripping with every pause I took. My parents and brother all looked at me intently, expecting something to happen. I can’t explain it, but in that moment I felt angry. Maybe anger isn’t the right word, but some kind of contempt rose with in me. the 17 shaped candles looked back at me begging me to get myself together, and not cry. So, I faked it. Pretended I was excited, and out the lights went.
For many years now, I’ve been searching for reasons as to why birthdays are my least favourite days of the year. Now that I think about, for the last couple of years I haven’t even enjoyed Christmas. Or Easter. Or New Years. When I wake up on the 25th of Decemeber, a sinking feeling overcomes my body, putting me in a sickening mood that will probably annoy my family members for the rest of the day.
I forsaw my miserable mood yesterday weeks before. My friends all begged me to do something for my birthday, bugging me about it every single lunch time. “Clara do you want to have a party?”, “Clara do you want to do something in the city?” they would imp, each question served up with a subconcious *wink wink*. Truth is I didn’t want to anything. But then again, maybe I should do something, just in case I don’t regret it.
Instead, I spent my day moping. I hate the fact I was so miserable, I dont even know exactly why I was on the verge of bitter tears. But how do you fake a feeling? I’m sure people do it all the time, but I’ve never been good at that. I asked my mum to take me to a cafe. So I sat down, drinking my hojicha latte in silence. My mum started to become irritated. She’s always had a way of making birthdays overwhelming for me and my brother, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She looked at me and sneered, “its funny, when the attention is actually on you for once, you dont want it”. I took that personally, of course.
Maybe I’m afraid of getting older.
When you’re a girl, your worth seems to be based on your youth. In movies you never see stories about the 50 year old housewife. They don’t pack theaters. For me, I always thought that If I can achieve soemthing incredible before I’m 20, people will admire me. Maybe even want to be my friend. But as I sit in front of my birthday cake, I realise, I haven’t written my first book yet. I haven’t filmed my first short film. Haven’t become something of myself. Heck, I haven’t even had my first relationship yet.
Actually, If anything, I’m behind. The social anxiety that decided to gorrila grip itself to me years ago, stopped me from doing basic human activities. Just last month I walked to the shops up the street and bought something for myself. For the first time, ever. Other people my age are out driving, travelling alone, and going to restaurants by themselves. I can’t even ask the lady at the coffee shop for a Matcha latte without my mum next to me. I’m pathetic. 10 year old Clara Jane thought she would be somewhere by now. She had such big dreams and aspirations. And I let her down.
You’re supposed to act a certain way on your birthday. Like a kid at Christmas. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give that childlike, genuine excitiment to anything ever again. That’s why I didn’t want to have a party. I couldn’t bare to fake a good time with nine of my closest friends and feel that outer-body, dissosociation while everyone else is having the time of their lives. It scares me. What if I get married, and on my wedding day I can’t even fake a smile at the altar? Why do I have to be so driven on inklings of thoughts and feelings?
People always ask you, do you feel different? But, honestly what does that even mean? I felt the same I did everyday. When I looked in the mirror I saw the same work-in progress face and work-in progress body. Being 17 meant nothing to me. I’m still just an underdeveloped little girl, who watches kid shows and forces her mum to do everything for her.
I hope that this time next year, things will be a little different. Maybe I’ll be more independent. Maybe I’ll not beat myself up so much about what I have and haven’t done. Maybe, I’ll be excited to celebrate another year of living, rather than surviving. But until then, I’ll be eating my left-over cake, the same girl I was last year.