Crying on Your Birthday Is a Part of Girlhood

On getting older but still feeling like a child.

I always cry on my birthday. So do most of the women I know. 

I'm not sure when I started; it's possible that I've always been this way. That I’ve participated in the ritualistic release of tears since I was a little girl. I came into this world crying; I know that much. So, I guess I started then.

It's a part of girlhood, crying on your birthday. A tradition I participate in year after year despite having turned eighteen and become a woman to everyone else but myself. 

The only thing I realized when I became an adult was that you don't stop wanting the things you wanted as a child. Girlhood rolls over into womanhood. Childhood into adulthood. We try to stomp it out and even though the flame goes, the smoke keeps pouring out in ribbons so light you have to squint to see.

Dreaming About Death on Pink Sofa by Lucia Dovičáková.

I know not every woman feels this way, but I know that some of them do because I'm one of them. Women who carry their girlhood slung over their shoulder like a purse. Women whose girlhood follows them like a shadow, a second self. Women whose girlhood fits them as well as their mothers heels do.

The girl I was and will always be shows herself to me less and less. Usually, when no one else is looking, even me, the woman that she belongs to. I can see her when I do a cartwheel in the grass or when I laugh with a woman whose name I don't even know. 

It’s childish, I suppose, to expect to keep celebrating your birthday like you did when you were a kid. It’s childish, too, to act like it’s not something most of us want. So I keep crying on my birthday and conjuring up the girl I used to be.

It's sad and selfish and entirely out of my control. Most of my birthdays have been great, a day spent wrapped up in love. I get the gifts I want, and if I don't, I have enough money to buy them for myself. There's a cake—sometimes homemade, sometimes store-bought, always delicious. There's someone to sing me happy birthday and candles to be blown out.

It's unfair to the people who have tried their hardest to make my birthday special. They say we love you and are happy you exist, and I cry because I can't believe it. I cry because life isn't what I thought it would be. I didn't do what I planned to do last year and probably won't do it this year. I'm older and just as immature. 

I started asking to spend my birthday alone. I go for a hike. I go shopping. I order my own cake and pick it up, too. I tell my loved ones that it's what I want, but I can't trick myself into believing it.

Last year, I put on my prettiest dress to run errands. My friend Esme met me between classes, and we got piercings. She got a new one in her ear, and I got my nose pierced for the second time. She gave me a pretty journal and Stephen King's On Writing. 

I met the guy I was seeing at Barnes and Noble and listened as he talked about his time in the Marines, movies, and working out. We kissed in his car, his hand wrapped around my throat in a way that said I won’t, but if I wanted to, I could. 

Esme and I cut into my cake around midnight, stretching the celebration for as long as possible.

It was a good birthday. I still cried myself to sleep.

The truth is that I want everyone I love to call in sick just to spend the day with me. 

I will move the furniture in the living room so we can sleep on the floor. We will stay up all night watching my favorite movies. When I laugh, I won't be the only one laughing. When I cry, so will everyone else. Pizza with stuffed crust and pineapples, eating ice cream straight from the pint, blue Mountain Dew. When the clock strikes midnight, everyone will wish me happy birthday, and I won't be embarrassed. We fall asleep with the TV on and wake up with it off.

We only get an hour of sleep, but it feels like we get twelve. Everyone gets almond croissants, breakfast sandwiches on asiago bagels, and hash browns. Let's go for a walk. The weather is perfect. The sun is out, and it's 72 degrees. There's a slight breeze. I wear a dress and never worry that the wind will blow it up past my thighs. 

It’s Great When You Cake by Vanessa Cooper

Sit down. I brought a blanket big enough for all of us. Don't ask how I carried it here. There's nothing I can't do for the people I love. I lift up a car with one hand just to prove it to you. Let's drink sweet white wine and read to each other. Everyone pulls out my favorite books, and they read my favorite passages.

When we are done, we use the blanket as a parachute. Grab the edges with both hands; no matter what, don't let go. On the count of three, we throw it into the sky. It collects a mouthful of air before we pull it down and sit on it. Everyone is giggling. I look around, and we are all kids. The world does not exist outside of the moment.

We take a nap and wake up just before dinner. It's a potluck of all my favorite foods: mac and cheese, salt and vinegar chips, fried pickles, and my mom's enchiladas. We eat until our stomachs hurt and then go for seconds. I pour everyone a cup of ginger tea. Drink it to make room for dessert. 

Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. Twenty-four birthday candles. No one sings Happy Birthday. There's music playing, the slow stuff that I like. I blow out the candles and they aren't the trick kind. I don't bother making a wish. I have everything I want.

Later in the night, when it's time to cry, my younger self is there with me. She lets me cry into her lap. She plays with my hair the way our mother used to. She puts two spoons in the freezer ahead of time. I take them out when there are no tears left and place them over my eyes. I thank myself.