August 2, 2014

What do I want for my birthday?

So many things, actually. An external hard drive, new clothes, new glasses and/or contact lenses, to have enough money to go to the beach and climb a new mountain. That’s only off the top of my head, but that’s child’s play compared to what I really want (getting run over is probably in the top ten, though).

[photo source]

How about motivation? The drive and passion to do everything with vigor and excitement, instead of doing things with the feeling that my soul is being crushed slowly.

How about the strength to live life alone? I want to not depend on my friends for emotional support. I want to be able to carry my own weight, my own problems, without needing to impose my misery on others. They do not need my crap on top of theirs.

How about a happy, fulfilled life? One where I’m not wracked and debilitated by existential angst every hour. I want to accept that although I am insignificant and the world would still turn without me, I can still be able to live life fully. I want to realize the freedom that insignificance brings, without feeling that nothing I do is ever of consequence.

With all my heart, I would wish a lifetime of 11:11s and birthday cakes just to have these.

Right now, I’m feeling terrible. There have been huge changes in my life, and I’m so tired of trying to be strong. Everything seems scary to me, with no one holding my hand as I stumble along in the dark. I hate myself, because (according to me) I’m supposed to be this strong-willed person doesn’t need anyone, but all I want right now is a friend’s shoulder to cry on.

My birthday is in less than two weeks. I’m turning 22, and as always, the prospect of growing up terrifies me something awful. Add to that the stress of adjusting to the changes in my life, and you have an emotionally unstable Ela who alternates between pigging out on junk food and starving herself. 

Usually, I love celebrating my birthday. I always make sure it’s a happy occasion, whatever I may be doing. But right now, my birthday feels like it’s another reminder of how another year has gone by, and I’m still this stupid, immature little girl who hasn’t learned shit since the last time she blew out the candles on a cake. It reminds me that twelve months have gone by, and I’m still not the person I want to be.

I have never dreaded my birthday more. This may be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I’m that this one will be the crappiest one yet, and there’s nothing in the present suggests that things will turn out better.


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