Bengisu

There’s a pressure that builds in my chest every year around this time. I still can’t put a name on it.

Ever since I recognized that people celebrated birthdays, mine made me feel strange and disconnected. It felt as if the day had nothing to do with me. I remember standing in places with people, cake or whatever in front of me, and feeling like someone else should be blowing out the candles. I never knew how to enjoy the attention. I always felt too aware of being watched and celebrated. Why am I celebrated again? I never claimed my years.

Now, the feeling is sharper and heavier. My dad’s been gone for five years, but around my birthday, the grief creeps in louder. Five was his favorite number. I know this because I valued stupid little info like this when I was a kid. My mom’s is three by the way. I don’t need reminders that my birthday is coming. I start feeling like I’m floating again. I feel detached yet impatient. I want to crawl out of my own skin before August begins and eventually leads to September.

This year, my body decided to join the panic. My period is late. My appetite is gone. I’m getting cramps, fatigue and dread. I try not to spiral, but I find myself checking the date over and over again. I hate how close it is now. I hate that something that should feel light, playful and special makes me feel heavier than ever. Every year feels like I’m running out of time to become someone who feels real.

I feel like the years are stacking up on a version of me I don’t fully recognize. I don’t like it when people celebrate my birthday, yet I feel like crying when they do. I feel like crying when someone expresses that they’re happy I’m here. I don’t know what to do with it.