I hate Birthdays, Especially My Own! You’ll Never Guess Why
No need to feel bad about forgetting my birthday. In fact, I'm glad you forgot.
There are those who don’t like birthdays because it’s a realization of their age. Some don’t like being at the center of attention. Others have bad memories of a particular birthday. And then there’s me.
While I absolutely hate being at the center of attention and always try to (unsuccessfully, as I’m a bit of a giant) blend into any crowd, this might not be the real reason I hate celebrating my birthday. And no, I’m not a crazy, ungrateful prick who resents his parent for giving birth to them. I still can’t believe such people exist and have the audacity to sue their parents. Oh, how I wish I could unsee all the insane shit I’ve seen in the last couple of years on the internet. Please let this be the first thing I forget in my old age.
Fun fact: When I was a young little rebel, and my overly critical parents were blaming me for something and telling me how much I sucked (I’m only slightly paraphrasing here), I would often remind them, to their face, that I was only a product of their doing. They made me what and who I was. Do I need to mention how much they disliked the smarty pants giving them a lecture on behavioral psychology and parenting? Probably not. Yes, I was a bit of a dick, and so were they. A match made in heaven.
Case in point - the forbidden birthday!
That’s right. You read that correctly. I was not allowed to celebrate my birthday. Not just one, as a punishment, or something. Oh no - I wasn’t allowed to celebrate any of my childhood birthdays!
Not only that, I wasn’t allowed to celebrate any popular holiday festivity, like Christmas, Halloween, and the like. No Santa for me. I must not have been a good boy. True as they might have been, the reasons lay elsewhere.
Were your parents insane or in a cult?
A bit of both, for almost two decades, I’m afraid, but mostly the cult thing. Yes, I was raised in a mild religious Cristian-inspired cult. Yey to Jesus, no to fun. Yey to being a sinner, not to actually sinning. Yey to reading the Bible, no to playing video games. Yey to getting married at 18, no to having sex without a ring.
If you and I had met in person, you would know it was like letting a lion into a sheep’s den. I was so out of place I had to pretend to be another person the whole time. Exhausting stuff, let me tell you! This timid, rule-abiding kid (the mask) who had to keep putting up with adult assholes, brainwashed by religion, telling him what to do at every bloody step.
The whole experience, while not exactly worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster, had left a lot of scars on this young boy. He wasn’t the only one. A lot of the kids from within the “cult” (they, of course, don’t call themselves so) are even more messed up than I was. Following their lives has been a sad reminder of the damage imposed on children involved in such environments.
Not all was bad, and no, there were no orgies, dammit!
Everybody always kept asking me about them, feeling slightly jealous, but no. Nothing about the experience was fun except hanging out with other kids who managed to let their guard down while hiding from the prying eyes of the ever-watchful supervisors.
Still, nothing kinky ever happened. God is always watching, don’t you know, and can apparently see behind the bush and under the sheets, too. We have a name for such overly inquisitive souls, but I don’t want to offend anyone, so I’ll self-censure my thoughts here for a bit. See you when I cool down.
Okay, I’m back to my civilized self. Where were we? Oh yeah, no sexual orgies. Hell, not even some absolution spanking or whipping. Nothing I tell you, nothing! Just boring old worshiping of the invisible, reaffirming one’s faith, and following the letter of the Law (Bible’s Law).
Listen, I get the whole believing in God and having faith thing.
I respect it, even though this post won’t convey that message. I do. Your faith in your God is your business. It’s even beneficial in achieving inner peace, releasing guilt or responsibility, receiving absolution, and having someone to trust when all things seem to be going to hell. Religion is useful. Faith can carry a man through fire if need be. It is a powerful thing.
Problems ensue when faith gets abused and manipulated by people.
This is who I have a problem with, not the faith itself—people, not God. Organized religion, cults, and micromanagement of religious leaders are like cancer on a body. Sooner or later, they corrupt even the best parts.
Our little cult was no different. A few overzealous people can ruin the experience for the rest of the “flock.” Why, oh why, is that always the case?
ZZ, you have gone completely off the script! You were talking about birthdays and holidays, you miserable ex-cultist, you.
As usual, you are correct, Mr. Inner Critic/Reader. There was one holiday we followed, but I won’t tell you what it was as that might reveal more than I am willing to. I will say this - there was, again, nothing fun about it whatsoever. Furthermore, it wasn’t about the first joyous day but the last miserable day of existence. Because life is supposed to suck, don’t you know? Just another formal ritual in the name of the “you know who,” reminding us of our sins for being alive. Children of the world, rejoice in his service!
One can leave a cult, but the cult never leaves them.
So, yeah, even though I managed to escape that particular hellish prison at about fifteen, I think, unfortunately, one doesn’t ever really escape his past. The hellish prison has been accompanying me in everything ever since—my relationships, including the one with myself, and my social and work life. You may think you’ve left it all behind, but you didn’t. None of us did. Brainwashing seems like a harsh word, but it really isn’t.
But ZZ, I hear you objecting; why not just decide to leave it all behind and make up for all the lost time now? Why not throw a giant party every year and celebrate your birth and the nearing of death, like the rest of the people?
Because I can’t. I hate being the birthday boy. I hate being celebrated. I hate being congratulated. I hate being praised. I hate being gifted. All of these normal, fun, and pleasant experiences of the “normies” are so unnatural to me that they border on torture.
“We’re throwing you a secret birthday party tonight, ZZ! Aren’t you happy?”
“Sure, sure, sure. If you’ll excuse me, I have a bus to step in front of.”
Okay, a bit of exaggeration and creative liberties aside, the anxiety of such an event is anything but a pleasant thing to look forward to. If I ever hear anyone wish me a “Happy Birthday,” apart from my nearest family, from whom I can tolerate a bit more love, ever again, it will be too soon.
Such is the way of the broken inner child, my friends.
Don’t worry; I couldn’t care less, and all I want is to be left alone during that time of year. If I’m feeling “cute,” I might take a few of my most emotionally distant, cold, manly men for a bear and a burger. I know they won’t make any scenes, and I can live with a nod of masculine approval once every couple of years.
I’ve been working on myself for two decades now, but I dare not enter this particular cave. I am still a broken boy, or rather, a hairy, large, grown-ass man carrying a broken boy deep within. Somewhere hidden, only showing himself at the most inopportune moments, never when it’s time to heal and set things right. He’s a sneaky little bugger, this one.
Note to self - we’re not all the same!
While I may not have a problem with not celebrating my birthdays or hiding somewhere in the nearby woods until people forget what day it is, my girlfriends did not share my point of view.
“No, darling. When I say I don’t want a gift and a circus, I mean that quite literally! No double-speak here, love. No wink-wink, surprise me, bullshit. I say what I mean. I’m a man, remember.“
It’s also quite awkward when I inevitably forget their birthdays. It’s just not something that would be on my radar. Yes, the hiding was an exaggeration. It’s more like forgetting the date, coincidentally or intentionally, depending on the year. Since I’m no moron, at least not an utterly insensitive moron, I do realize that birthdays are a very special day for most people, including my girlfriends.
There have been some uncomfortable conversations, piercing looks, and vengeful celibates over the years. I can tell you that! So now, my phone has about a dozen alerts for those special occasions. I shall inevitably forget your special date; this is a fact of life I’ve learned to embrace, but my smartphone won’t! Ha! I’ve hacked the system yet again. “See, I told you I love you and would never forget your “special” day, my love!”
Here’s what’s funny, but no one will ever understand.
Deep down, I feel like I’m doing them a favor when I don't text or call people for their birthday. No joke! I remember, or more accurately, my phone remembers, but I’m like: “I get you, bro. I’ve got this. I’ll pretend you don’t exist today. You can relax now.”
Since I don’t particularly like the affair (understatement), I automatically forget that others might like a little extra attention on that particular day, an echo of their first breath outside their mother's uterus. It doesn’t sound that special now, does it? Good. It’s not. It’s stupid. Birthdays are stupid! Leave me alone!
So now, dear reader, you know why I hate birthdays, especially my own.
What, oh, what will you do with this newfound superpower?! Maybe you’ll understand another weird little soul that doesn’t fit your “normal” narrative and realize you may not know what’s behind their socially awkward behavior. In case I wasn’t clear enough, it’s either a cult or some other sort of childhood trauma.
Learn to accept them, and don’t ask too many questions. Not all have the privilege of an anonymous platform to profess their weirdness like I do. Not all are comfortable talking about it, either. Let’s all try to give ourselves some space and a bit more understanding without unnecessary probing, shall we?
I promise to accept you if you promise to accept me. And the world will be a better place for us all.
Be well, my friends, and happy birthday up front! Don’t worry. I won’t be bugging you when the time comes. Your secret is safe with me.
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