I had the chance to celebrate my birthday yesterday and by celebrate I mean getting no gifts and hearing loads of excuses how money is tight. I don’t mind, really, birthdays should be about getting together and having some fun.
Mine got destroyed from the beginning. My mother threw a temper tantrum that nobody is paying any attention to her so I tried to pacify her and got her birthday presents in advance (her birthday is in the 15th but I’m not in the country at that time) and then she threw them in my face saying she does not need them or that she already has them (I doubt she already has Inferno by Dan Brown – and he’s her favorite author).
Then she scoffed and huffed until the day is over and I could barely manage to hold on to a smile. My 30th birthday and not a single present. Or birthday card. All the good wishes on Facebook from people that live so far away that meeting them is impossible.
I flew back to England yesterday morning and I started crying when I walked through the doors of the house I’m currently sharing with two others. They went to the trouble to blow up nearly 200 balloons, baked a cake with roses, put little banners with “Happy 30th” everywhere in the kitchen and around my bedroom door and even got me little bday cards with cats (I looove cats).
I dropped my bag and I think I cried my eyes out for about half an hour. Time is relative when you are mourning the drifting apart from your parents and you realize that people that only know you for less than a year give a shit about you more than your family and life-long friends do.
Once I’ve done my little self-pity cry, I buckled up and went back to being me. I cleaned my room, sat down with a book and waited for my new friends to come home so I can tell them how much I love them.
And I did. I hugged them both and told them how much it meant – what they did for me.
Life is great again.
PS: I don’t think I’ll be going home anytime soon. My home is now here.