Birthdays. I’ve always had mixed feelings about them. On one hand, it’s nice to feel celebrated—to have a day that’s yours. On the other hand, there’s the pressure of it all. What if no one remembers? What if they do, but it’s more out of obligation than genuine excitement? Today, those feelings were out in full force.
It started with Scott—shiny-headed, tattooed, and carrying that mix of firmness and kindness that makes him oddly comforting. He recognized me right away, opening the door with a big smile and a friendly, “How are you this afternoon?”
“It’s my birthday today,” I told him, voice barely above a whisper. My face burned as I repeated it louder when he didn’t hear me the first time. Why is saying that so hard?
Scott’s response was so genuine that I immediately felt silly for hesitating. He wished me a hearty “Happy Birthday” and even took the heavy gift from my hands before leading me down the hall to see Mom.
Mom greeted me with a big hug—a bright moment in what turned out to be a roller coaster visit. She’s always been unpredictable, but I’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, my birthday would soften the edges of her mood. That hope faded fast. She started by guilt-tripping me for not visiting on her birthday—completely ignoring the fact that the psych facility’s rules and her own scheduling choices made it impossible. By the time we sat down in the visitation room, I was already emotionally exhausted.
We talked about her party. Apparently, the cake was too plain (marble, if you’re curious). She had strong opinions about how raspberry-mint-chocolate with cream cheese frosting would’ve been better. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it,” she clarified. “It was just boring.” Typical Mom.
She lit up talking about the game of Pictionary they played—how everyone was laughing and having a blast. It made me happy to hear that. But then she shifted gears to complain about two other patients who spent the evening talking to each other instead of paying attention to her. The jealousy was palpable, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness for her—always chasing validation, always feeling overlooked.
When she finally opened her gift—eight two-liters of Mountain Dew—she beamed. It was one of the few genuinely joyful moments of the visit. But, of course, the conversation circled back to me. “What did you get for your birthday?” she asked.
I showed her the diamond earrings Seth gave me this morning. Or rather, I tried to. The stones are so tiny they barely catch the light, and I could tell Mom wasn’t impressed.
“Are you sure those are diamonds?” she asked. I could feel my cheeks flush. The truth is, I’d thought the same thing. But they were a gift, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful—even if they didn’t quite sparkle the way I’d hoped.
As the visit wound down, I found myself making up an excuse about dinner plans with Jess. I just needed an out—a way to escape the emotional landmine that is any interaction with Mom. She’s right about one thing, though. One day, I won’t have a mother anymore. And I probably will be sorry.
But today, on my birthday, I couldn’t handle the weight of it all. I left with a forced smile and a promise to “bring back leftovers” from my imaginary dinner. And as I walked to my car, I couldn’t help but feel the emptiness creeping in.
Birthdays are supposed to be special, aren’t they? So why do they always leave me feeling so hollow?
This diary post was written by fictional character Brianne Brigg
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