My brain has been my enemy for almost half my life at this point.  There were a few years there (in very recent times) when it actually wasn't, but it has since become my enemy again.  And I've been thinking lately.  Too much.  But it happens nonetheless, and so I suffer the consequences.

I've had this blog for so many years, I don't recall if I've talked about the fact that I hate my birthday.  Or if I have talked about that, if I've talked about why I hate my birthday.  But, as it occasionally does, the subject has surfaced again in my brain, with additional realisations.  (After all, with everything in my life, every single thing is analyzed, over and over and over again, trying to make sense of why and how and what could have been done differently, what can be done differently to not have a repeat in the future, etc. etc. etc.)

I hate my birthday.  Anyone who knows me well will know this.  Although I think only a handful of people know why.  It took me a while to figure it out for myself, and this was after going to therapy, then not going to therapy anymore (due to moving), and somehow the residual effects of therapy lingered in my brain long enough for me to make the connection.

I grew up in a household of 8 people.  I'm the youngest of 6 kids.  The children outnumbered the parents, and for a lot of reasons, there wasn't enough attention to go around for everyone.  (Positive attention, I should say.)  From my perspective now, as an adult, thinking about the things I remember from my childhood, it seems like if us kids behaved/were good, we were otherwise ignored, because we were doing what was expected.  Good behaviour, doing the right thing, did not guarantee positive attention or affection.  (Negative/bad behaviour, on the other hand, definitely guaranteed attention, but not of the positive kind.  Ask me how I know.)  Because I was a temperamental child (I used to joke I should have been born with red hair), I got quite a bit of attention.  But not the good kind.  The kind that was a response to inflict disciplinary correction, as a way of making me behave (spoiler alert: it didn't work).  I think I fall into the cliche of the youngest child syndrome, which I absolutely hate, but here we are.  I didn't get enough attention or affection, so my subconscious child brain drew the conclusion that if I did bad, at least I would garner some kind of attention, albeit negative attention.  Et voila.

Until my birthday came around.

On my birthday, that glorious one day out of 365 days, the day was mine.  Parents and siblings alike acknowledged that I existed.  The attention I got was good and happy.  I was celebrated.  People expressed love.
And then the day was over.
And I crashed and burned.

I think I started hating my birthday when I was in middle school/high school.
Because it became too much.  The emotional toll of having one good day, just one, of people in my family paying attention to me, celebrating me, and then to have the very next day return back to "normal" where I was otherwise ignored (more or less), was such a hardcore crash and burn emotionally, that it became too much.  I hated that feeling on the day after my birthday that always came.  Always.  Without a doubt, the day after I would wake up and feel so...I don't know.  Empty?  Lost?  Unwanted?

This is what made me start hating my birthday.

And in thinking about it again recently, that's when I realised it.  My childhood consisted of this: 1 day out of the 365 days that exist in the year, I felt seen.  I felt wanted.  I felt welcome.  I felt celebrated.  Once that magical day ended, and reality came back like a punch to the face, I went back to being just another child in a big family, who really only got specific attention if I misbehaved.
Don't get me wrong.  There were other moments, I'm sure (I can remember just a handful, but maybe there were more that I don't remember), where I did actually get positive attention.  But those moments felt few and far between.  They did not outweigh or outnumber the negative attention, or the most common scenario of simply existing and not really being acknowledged one way or another.  Of course, there were also other moments where, while I was too young for my brain to consciously make the connection, where things happened that communicated to me that I wasn't welcome or wanted.  I'm sure those situations that happened were not the intentions of my parents.  I'm confident they did not mean to have their actions communicate to my small child brain that I was too much, or not wanted; intentions aside though, actions always speak louder than words, and the actions told me that I was too much, and that I wasn't wanted.

There is a reason (multiple reasons, actually, but I digress) that I'm not really close to my immediate family.

I have hardly felt seen in my life.

From not really having attention or affection growing up, or having too many people in the house that I was just another body/face that existed, or whatever the case was, who I was, my likes, dislikes, things I cared about, friends, whatever...those things were not paid attention to.  And it's funny, because I suppose people who experience this can react one of two ways.  The first type of person would experience this, and take that to mean it doesn't matter, and live their life in that same way: not paying attention to the people around them, not bothering to get to know them, to show that they care.  The second type of person would respond the opposite: they did not get the attention they needed, and so they made up their mind that the people in their life would not go through the same experience.  Instead, they would make sure to know the people around them, know their likes and dislikes, their favourite colour, what makes them happy, how to comfort them when they're sad...
I am the second person.

There have been a few moments in my life, however, where I have felt seen by my family.  By the people in my life.  And I have not forgotten those moments.

Like the time where my brother was dating someone, and he kept pushing me to try to talk to her.  And our dad warned him to stop pushing, because I wouldn't react well.  And dad was right.
Or the time when I was visiting family in the Midwest, and my sister-in-law told me that my brother had told her that I'm an extremely loyal person.  The fact that he knew that about me shocked me, because I don't think my family knows me very well at all.  But he was right.  And in that moment, I felt seen.
Then there was the time I was visiting home back in California, and I was with my parents, and we were trying to find a local coffee shop to go to (the one I initially was trying to take them to had closed sometime after I moved away).  And my mom suggested a place, and my dad shot down the idea, stating their coffee wasn't very good, and I wouldn't like that.
Or on that very same trip, my dad broke out the grill and made hamburgers, because my parents know that's my favourite type of food.
The time years and years ago when I had wanted to visit a friend I made from summer camp, to be at her high school graduation, but didn't have money and gave up on the idea, and my sister, out of nowhere, surprised me with a plane ticket to make the trip.  I don't even remember talking to her about wanting to do that, but somehow she knew, and she made it happen for me.
And the most recent time was a couple years ago now.  We were still living in upstate New York, and there was a specific place my husband had went for work.  He noticed the architecture in the area was beautiful, and knew that I loved architecture, and so one weekend made it a point to drive me out there, just to show me the beautiful homes.  I felt so loved and so seen in that moment.

Those moments in my life have been few and far between.
But I remember them.
Because it is not often in my life that I feel seen.
That I feel like I'm wanted, or that I matter.
And so I treasure those memories, those moments, for what they were.  Because it showed me, that against all odds (or so it feels), somehow people still paid attention to me, and saw me, and knew me, in some way.

And that means more than they will ever know.