September 27th, 1994

It is the date that graces my driver’s licence. It’s the date I repeat to the nurse doing my blood work before she returns my health card. It is the day that I was born. And in about one hour, it will have happened exactly 21 years ago.

I used to love my birthday. I would tell anybody who would listen and some who wouldn’t that my special day was in two weeks, one week, three days, today! I felt like a princess all day long.

But tomorrow is my 21st birthday, and to be honest, I wish it wasn’t. I wish I could postpone this birthday until a happier time, or just skip it entirely.

I don’t want to think about how malnourished and depressed I was on September 27th of last year. I don’t want to think about the year since that day, and how it just feels like a WASTE. How instead of going to lecture, I was going to the hospital. And instead of writing math tests, I was having blood tests. I don’t want to think about it any more than I already do.

I also don’t want to think about how much more I weigh. In the past month, I have reached my highest weight since Summer 2013, and I have a feeling it has increased more since my therapist last weighed me. September 2014 Sarah may have been miserable, but she was lighter.

More than any of this, I don’t want to be happy. Or rather, I don’t want to PRETEND to be happy. I don’t want this internal pressure to enjoy the day I used to love so much, or the external pressure to just get over myself and be GRATEFUL. I am a white, cisgender, middle-class individual living in Canada, and people who love me are giving me presents! What do I have to be sad about?

On second thought, the pressure to be grateful may be internal as well.

In about 45 minutes, I will officially be 21 in the Eastern Time Zone. And I still wish that wasn’t the case.



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