On January 31st, it was my birthday. I didn't get any presents. I didn't get cake. I, instead, got to go to a small place with shitty food and blue lighting. I didn't enjoy myself, and honestly, my family didn't care. I wanted to get over it, because that's a stupid thing to be bitter about, but I couldn't.
It wasn't until February 14th, when I wrote my first ever 3 page long suicide note during school, when classes were cancelled because all the students were celebrating and sharing food, that I realized it wasn't because of the lack presents and cake, or the restaurant, that I was so bitter. Not at all. I had just not known what had bugged me and blamed the first shallow reason I saw, which only made me feel shittier.
I didn't get a happy birthday song.
I didn't get to blow out the amount of candles representing how many years I'd lived.
I didn't get a hug.
I realized it wasn't about the things that could be done at any time, like a proper celebration or a awkwardly wrapped gift or even a small card, none of which I got. It was about the things that can only be enjoyed on the very day. I can't remember the last time someone hugged me or genuinely smiled because of me.
It's all so stupid. It's a bratty reason and shitty stuff to hold a grudge over. My dad is poor and my sister is annoyed at the shit I do and my other sister is a baby and my mom is fuck knows where. People not treating you special and fussing over everything being perfect for you is a shitty reason to be mad.
But it still makes me tired and sad and angry.
