It doesn’t feel so sweet. At all, actually. Especially since I’ve been doing work for the first six hours of being sixteen.
It feels nice though, this birthday thing, even though it only comes once a year. After a year of having people drill it into you that you’re worthless, stupid, equivalent to the bare scum on the earth, it’s nice to watch the clock tick past midnight, the Facebook messages tumble into your inbox, the sing-song voicemails. When no one’s awake and you’re all alone, the first few hours of the day are peaceful, sacred. For a few hours, you’re reminded that you’re loved, cared for, remembered, three reminders that are too rarely encountered. But that’s only those few hours.
I don’t get why sixteen is such a big number, other than the fact that it used to mark the age of debutante balls and fancy ceremonies (according to Gilmore Girls), but after aging another year, I don’t find anything special with sixteen.
Looking back at the past twelve months, I feel so empty. Nothing has built me up to become more than I was; if anything, this past year has eaten me up down to the very last crumb. Nothing has been significant. Nothing has happened that’s made my parents grin with pride, nothing has happened that’s made me hug myself with contentment. Yet amidst all this nothing-ness this past year felt sated, heavy. Looking back, I think everything just canceled each other out; moments of happiness were quickly nulled by periods of murkiness, luck eventually crushed by fate.
Sixteen. I’m almost scared to hope that this year will be different. I’ve come to embrace the melancholy with open arms, happy to at least have a constant in life. I’m scared to anticipate for too much, but at the same time I know all too well what’s to come. After all, sixteen is just a number, an even age that will have to face all too many oddities.
Too many oddities.
Happy birthday, Me.
