It’s my birthday, and I’m crying

The story of why birthday celebrations aren’t ever enough

Every year, it’s the same thing.

A couple of days before, you’ll find me staring by the window. In silence. My loved ones might talk about it, asking me what I want to do this year. And I’ll answer quietly that it doesn’t matter, it’s just a day like any other.

Yes, I’ll lie. I’ll pretend that I don’t care. That I don’t want anything.

I’ll feel bad immediately after, knowing that not celebrating it somehow would make it even worse, knowing that I desperately need the people in my life to show me their love and affection in a way that is meaningful and that shows how important my life is to them.

When I do that, I don’t mean to be falsely modest or humble. Humility is not exactly my character strength. No. I’m protecting myself from the disappointment. From the despair of feeling that it wasn’t enough.

Because no matter what they plan for me, no matter how many people wish me a “happy birthday”, no matter whether the cake is right, whether the gift is well thought of, no matter even what I would plan for myself… it will never be enough. Or rather, it will never be adequate.

I may come off as extremely demanding. I probably am.

The day of my birthday, is the anniversary of a birth and the anniversary of a loss. It’s the day that, as I was coming into this world in a bleak hospital room in the middle of the night, I was denied what any newborn needs the most: my mother.

I was denied to smell her, to touch her, to feel her warmth and her unconditional love. I was denied to exist in her eyes, and therefore I felt I couldn’t possibly exist at all.

The nurses took me away from her, as she lay there, emotionless, in her hospital gown. She had put me up for adoption.

How did I feel about it? Well, there’s the abandonment wound, of course. But even stronger is the rejection. The pain is excruciating. The experts call it “the primal wound”, and when I connect to it, I feel a big red and purple cut, with parts missing, in the middle of my stomach. I have never felt so much pain in my life. And I think that unless you too were adopted, you can’t know what it’s like.

So when the calendar shows that my birthday is coming, my body and my soul remember, and I’m confused.

There’s the me today, with a logical mind. I know my story, I’ve come to terms with it, I’ve been to therapy, I’m still healing and I probably always will. I have a family of my own and a truly wonderful daughter. I have a successful business in which I’m lucky to meet amazing people. I’m happy, and I want to celebrate, because it’s a beautiful day and I’m happy to be in this world, and to serve my purpose.

But there’s also the “baby me” inside. And there’s nothing to be celebrated for her. It’s the anniversary of a loss, for which there has never been a funeral. And the party seems ridiculous. The birthday wishes are incomplete. She never gets to say that she’s hurting because everybody expect you to be happy at a birthday! It’s a paradox, and it’s nobody’s fault.

It’s my birthday, and I’m crying.

For the first time, I’ll try to take it all into consideration, not hiding any parts, despite how confusing it may be for the people around me.

I’ll be mourning today, and celebrating too, summarizing the entire ambiguity of my existence in a single day.

If you were adopted too, how do you deal with your birthday celebrations?If you know someone who was adopted, can you understand them a bit better?Let me know.