I never liked celebrating my birthday.
It feels awkward and weird to have other people celebrate the day of the year when all I could think about
was how I ripped the hell out of my mother’s vagina.
When all I could think about is that
growing in my mother’s belly for 9 months made her feel fat, inconvenient, unwanted,
made her work harder, made everything taste different, made her nauseous, made her marry a man who would break her heart not once, not twice, but thrice after giving birth to their fourth daughter.
So, it made no sense for me
or rather, I don’t feel like I should be celebrating a day when it was the start of a living hell for the woman who gave birth to me.
I’d rather mourn instead.