Happy birthday?
Crying on my birthday started at a young age. My most memorable meltdown was turning thirteen.
My parents were divorced and I was living with my dad. He could build a house from scratch or fix a dead car in an afternoon. But his best advice for a weeping son was a confused stare.
I was confused, too. What does this mean? Am I broken? How come it seems like everyone else can just eat the cake without the crying?
Helpless.
I didn’t have a therapist back then to talk about milestone distress. Didn’t have the internet to look up liminal anxiety. Didn’t have TikTok to get advice about mortality salience.
My only source of help was from my limited, fenced-in world of rural Louisiana where people didn’t seem to worry much past their own pastures.
My pasture felt small. Lonely.
Grow up.
My friends were part of the problem. They were flirting with dangerous things—girls and sports!
I didn’t want girls.
When my best friend said he was going to start playing basketball, I pulled the “B” encyclopedia off the shelf to learn the rules of the game and said to myself, “I guess it’s time to become an athlete.”
It didn’t take.
I cried at the call to “grow up.” I didn’t want to say goodbye to my He-Man action figures. I didn’t want to put play and imagination in the attic.
The escape.
Boy Scouts saved me, accidentally. I hated camping and learning about knots. But we took a field trip to a television news station in New Orleans and I saw a bigger life.
I aimed for it, every weepy birthday bringing me closer.
I went to college in New Orleans, got a job at that same television station, found my first therapist, found likeminded friends.
Still, sometimes, I cry on birthdays.
But this year was better.
I now understand what’s happening and how to fix it.
