Birthdays are so interesting to me. Every year we celebrate another year of being alive, getting old, until we eventually die. I personally stopped caring about making my yearly birthday celebration such a big thing, after I turned eighteen.
My eighteenth birthday was the most special one; because I never thought I would live that long. So my friends threw me a surprise party, knowing it was a very special year to me. After that year, I just stopped caring. Which is weird because usually when you’ve been dealing with depression for years you would want to be proud of being alive every year. I think the feeling of sadness and curious to the thought of dying lingered for so long that I eventually just became numb to that idea.
“Whatever happens, happens”. “Everything happens for a reason”. The two quotes I live by. The numbness towards life just keeps getting stronger, as time goes by. Tomorrow I will be twenty-two. Another year of being alive. Thankful, but also confused. With this whole pandemic happening, there’s no point of celebrating my life when there are people working to save lives while having the fear of getting sick themselves, and spreading it on to their families and eventually having to face death.
Being alive is such a beautiful experience, and I am grateful. But the numbness from the past continues to linger, and it’s hard to focus on the positive aspects of life when the bad outweighs the good.
She Blooms In June - by Lilia 