Moment of Epiphany: On Why Cutting People off is Justifiable from Now On

Happy birthday — birth week? Birth month?

The last birthday present for my birthday this year had arrived today, so I think today’s a good day to post this. Because that means my birthday (or week) is officially over, right?

There is a vivid memory of a birthday celebration for when I turned 5, many years ago. Two, large cakes in a classroom full of children, with loud decorations and equally loud off-key singing. I don’t remember how wide I smiled, but I do remember being surprised because I didn’t expect my parents to celebrate my birthday, at school.

All the birthday wishes from my teachers, my friends, and my family made me feel something I can only describe as ‘warm’. I don’t remember many birthdays after that, but we never did like doing anything grand with birthdays, we don’t like parties. Mom holding that party was a part of her ‘curriculum’ in raising me, for my confidence, self-esteem, my pride. As far as I remember that 5th birthday was my last birthday party, and birthdays after that just felt… like any other day.

Of course, we still celebrate birthdays. But I figured I had matured enough for birthdays to no longer be something big. So, birthday wishes from mom, dad, and my sister, and passing remarks from my friends were enough for me. I no longer expected cakes, or presents, or for 50 people to wish me on this one ordinary day.

Sweet seventeen was a thing for teenage girls especially, right? On my friends’ sweet seventeen, they held parties, invited tens or hundreds of people, with three-tiered cakes and special photoshoots. I enjoyed those parties, but not to the point I wished for one.

So, on my 17th birthday, I bought a cake for the first time in many years, lit a candle, and celebrated the day with dad, mom, grandma, and auntie. But not because it was my birthday, but because my birthday coincided with me winning a debate competition that day. Thus, that became a special day, special enough for me to be giddy about blowing the candle.

I thought about this once and decided perhaps I was mature. Or jaded. Either way birthdays were no big deal.

But recently, for the past 5 years, birthdays have been warm again. We bought cakes, some presents, our family would gather around the candlelit cake, and my friends would send me heartfelt wishes. I didn’t know how to react at first, having lived the past 10+ years being used to birthdays being ‘just another day’. But my most recent birthday made me realise something that I’m very grateful for, to the brink of choking on my own tears.

I am loved. In many ways — I am loved. I am appreciated. In many, different ways — I am appreciated. And I realise that in the ideal world, we’re supposed to make sure that our friends and family feel that they are loved and appreciated 24/7/365, not just during their birthdays, but there will be times that we won’t be able to. And birthdays could be that one day in the year where you feel like you’re most appreciated, most loved, most recognised. Most special. It was the day you crawled or pulled out of your mother’s womb: a crying, wrinkly champion resembling the ball sack you came from. And now here you are, no longer resembling a ball sack and hopefully not the di** too. It should be more special than an ordinary day. You should feel more alive than ordinary days.

Among the cheesy birthday wishes, the fun birthday wishes, the birthday gifts — the caricature, disco lamp, strawberry cake, the cookies, the sweets, and the many, many cheesecakes — I felt an overwhelming sense of existence. That yes, I exist in the different books that are my friends’ and families’ lives. As a line, a paragraph, or a chapter. That yes, they appreciate my existence. That yes, they felt the love I tried sharing with them, even a bit, and loved me back in ways they could. I had felt a lump on my throat at the realisation that I have so many people in my life, that appreciate me, and these people could actually offset those who tried to make me feel small.

Moreover, someone spent 20+ years building me from the wrinkly ball that I was, to this walking, thinking creature. Someone spent 20+ years filling me with deep-rooted happiness, blooming pride, put me in a crystal ball and dressed me in precious, affectionate, encouraging words. Someone spent 20+ years loving me, with a love so overwhelming, they seep through my fingers, through my lips, that allow me to be brave enough to share the same kind of love to others.

Having experienced a love that is so abundant, how am I supposed to worry about the love running out after sharing them?

So, I shared. But that kind of love was not always reciprocated. There were times I found myself crying, heartbroken, over someone that hurt me. Over complicated relationships, over finding myself being played with by someone yet I wouldn’t let go of that someone. I continued hoping, thinking things will change, that my love can be the water to their rock.

All those birthday wishes, all those expressions of love made me realise that I have so many people around me who truly love me. Why should I hurt over someone who doesn’t know how to love me, the way I (at least think I) deserve? I know my hurt was valid, my anger was valid, and my tears were real. But I consciously chose to feel hurt, to bask in it, and focus on those who hurt me.

So, with the realisation that someone spent nine months carrying me, not knowing how I would turn up yet still she prayed for me to arrive safely; with the realisation that someone is actually spending their time loving me, I refuse to take any less than the love she showed me. I’ve been told my standard is high, but that’s because I am someone’s precious child; I learned of love through the love she showed me, and I know no other way of loving. And so, I learned to love those around me the same way she loves me, and I have felt that love unexpectedly bouncing back. With the realisation that there are so many people around me who are capable of loving kindly, in a nice way, I will not apologise for cutting people off.

I will not apologise for cutting off anyone who toy with me, make me feel small, or any kind of asshat that doesn’t know how to give equal respect to our interaction. Does that sound arrogant? I don’t know. Pride is supposed to sound arrogant, right? This is my self-pride. Which stems from the realisation that this world is filled with good, loving people, and I shouldn’t settle for less.

The world may not owe me jack squat, but I owe it to my mother to only let love live with me, enshroud me, and not let anything hurtful touch this creature she spent years loving.

Thank you, my dear friends for your heartfelt wishes, for the pretty cakes, and for the companionship (this goes to Dena who did not wish me a proper birthday wish but I know your heart is with me). Thank you, for showing me that not only am I capable of loving, but I deserve a good kind of loving too. As Gaston Bonaparte was, I strive to be the same kind of wonderful fool too.

Happy birthday, Milen.