Birthdays: A Day To Remember

Birthdays are very funny. A day to remember the day you were born. People fawn over you like a dove or chicken recently born, waddling out of your nest two-legged and scared.

But after a while, birthdays grow old. You know just how you are growing old. And at times you lose your composure and feeling of what it's like to be a child. The joy and happiness turn to gloom as you spit in the dirt—another day, another dollar.

"The truth is I don't want to be treated special. Or to receive a birthday gift because, well, I just don't deserve it. A part of me craves attention at every waking moment. The other part yawns as my family sings happy birthday to me for the twenty-sixth time."

"Why don't you think you deserve to be special, Oliver?" the therapist asks me.

"Well, it's not that I don't deserve it... I guess, but rather that I tie my worthiness or being worth to the things that I have accomplished in my life." I watch as the therapist taps her pen and starts writing on her notepad. I don't know why I agreed to do this in the first place, but someone said that it might be good for me, so I agreed.

"This feeling of worthiness or that you are not good enough. Let us give an example." I watch as the therapist stands up next to a long piece of paper.

"In this example, you, Oliver, bake cookies for your family. Well, isn't that nice? I grin mischievously. That is something I would do, though. My grandma has a great chocolate chip recipe. I find myself smiling again, thinking of the fond memories.

"Oliver! Pay close attention. If someone said thank you for these cookies—" She points to the piece of paper in front of her. "How would you react?"

"Yes, well maybe... in that fleeting moment I would feel appreciated, yes." I put my hand to my face, looking up at the drab white ceiling. "But the moment would surely go away," I say, looking back over the therapist's simple drawing of a cookie.

"Yes, as all moments in time fly away like a bird... How do we solve this problem then?"

"That is what I am asking you, but the answer is to get a job that gives me meaning."

"Yes, that would be one solution, but I know you have been writing. Does that not give you meaning?"

"It does, but it does not fix the greater problem of feeling—"

"Unappreciated, yes, like you are worthless. Well, I certainly do not go easy on you because I know you want my honesty."

"Yes, what do you think would be best for me then?"

"To continue the work you have been doing. Keep writing, keep reading. You cannot stop now!" I watch the therapist walk closer to me on the black leather couch."You are worth more than—" and she pauses, "let me tell you that if—"

"You're wrong," I yell and point at the therapist. "I am ending it here because I believe my time has arrived." I push past her and run to the door.

"Oliver, please, you have so much to live for!"

I don't turn around, rushing through the doorway. I turn right past the secretary's desk.

"How is the session?"

"Great, just getting some exercise." I stop and smile and wink, then continue to the stairwell. I don't turn around to see if the therapist or secretary are following me. I race up each set of stairs as they bring me closer to my goal. Two steps up, three more, then five more, then onto the next platform. Rinse and repeat.

I hear the therapist calling my name from a couple of flights down. "Oliver, please come back, we are not finished yet!"

My pace quickens. There is no way she can catch me now!

I burst out of the door and am immediately blinded by the sunlight shining down upon me. I have been struggling with my eye drops, and the sensitivity in my eyes is not getting any better.

Blindly, I wander forward with my hands covering my head. The sunlight still shines through the cracks between my fingers.

Thunk.

My knees hit a railing meant to keep people from falling off the edge, but that is what I desire. To fall into oblivion. I swing one leg over the railing, then the other follows suit. I sit on the railing and peek out through my fingers. It is a long way down.

I hear a voice behind me.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"You're right. I do not belong. That is why I am leaving this Earth," I say vehemently, ready to cast myself aside the moment the voice behind me leaves me alone.

"No, you hear me wrong, because your life is worth more to many people." I nod my head up and down, still sitting against the railing.

"I know... I am just tired of dealing with the same problems every day."

"I understand," the voice booms louder in my ear. "But yet you have persevered this far. Why stop now when you are so close?"

"So close to what?"

"That is for you to discover," the voice booms again.

I turn my head around and see no one behind me. Why am I not surprised? I laugh to myself.

"Am I imagining this voice?" I say out loud, and the voice booms softly back.

"No, I am here to ease your pain." Immediately I feel a sense of caring and love that I have never felt before. It knows me like no other person. In and out. Wholeheartedly and completely, an ever-flowing love that never ceases.

I swing my legs back over the railing and slowly walk back down the stairs.

"Are you still with me?" I say out loud again, walking down the stairs steadily.

"I am always with you, and don't ever forget it. Happy birthday, for you will receive the crown of life soon enough if you persevere through these trials of tribulation. Have faith."

There is a moment of silence as I continue stepping down the stairs. Then the voice returns to say its last words.

"Don't stop... writing. You have a gift that I have given you." I nod in response and smile all the more. Why do I ever question myself, or cave into doubt? Why do I consider myself worthless even though I know that to be false?

I walk back into the therapist's room, much to her surprise. "Oliver, I have called the police. They should be here any minute. I am worried sick about you. Where did you go?"

"To a better place for a short time, or really a voice comes to me in my time of need. When I need a friend most... A voice to guide me away from jumping to my demise."

"Well, I am glad you are safe. Now you can continue writing your stories without fear that this is not what you are supposed to be doing," the therapist says sweetly, tapping her pen on her notepad.

"Indeed, I shall continue my quest so that one day I may receive the crown of life," I say loudly and with a proud smile on my face.

The therapist nods and turns her head, not quite understanding the impact of what I said. But it doesn't matter because I understand its impact and meaning.

That I should continue in my writing ventures, that it will lead me to fruition and away from death. That is all I can hope for, to say the least. Because even I am unaware of what lies next.

"This will be our last visit. I will call if I need you again." I say, still smiling.

"Alright, Oliver, take care. I look forward to your writing," the therapist says.

"A farewell poem for a new day. To discuss birthdays, to this poem I present to you Mrs. Green." I say before I recite my birthday poem.

Birthdays can be solemn or sweet.

But at the very least they should leave you smiling.

Smiling at new year ahead,

and looking back in reflection of the year you left behind.

Because as humans we adapt,

We change,

grow and blossom in new ways,

but we always move forward, because there is no going back.

As much as voices in our head may lead us astray,

we should always return to the path which has called to us.

She nods in response and bows her head, hearing the last word that I said. A sign of respect I am sure for the less words from a therapist the better. At least the less words for me to think about. I nod back and tip my hat goodbye and walk through the door for the last time.