I tried not to care, but I couldn’t.
Celebrating my own birthday has always felt strange to me. Not like something I look forward to, but something I could easily ignore, even if I wanted to. And most of the time, I do.
Growing up, birthdays were never a big thing. As far as I can remember, I either didn’t celebrate it at all or shared it with my brother, whose birthday is three months before mine. Sometimes Ibu and Bapak would buy a cake for both of us, and I remember feeling bad for him. He was always more expressive, so I could see it clearly. And because of that, I felt even worse. I think that’s when I started to dislike celebrating my birthday like that.
I used to wonder if my friends at school remembered my birthday. Sometimes they surprised me, but most of the time they didn’t. And honestly, that wasn’t their fault. My birthday was never really anyone’s business but mine.
So I learned not to expect anything.
Don’t get me wrong, I like gifts. I like the idea that someone thought about me, even for a brief moment. That I was part of their day, their effort, their intention. It feels nice to be considered.
But after the birthday passes, everything just goes back to normal. The same routine, the same days, moving forward into something I don’t fully understand yet. And somehow, that makes me anxious when my birthday gets closer. Not because I hate it, but because the more I tell myself not to care, the more I think about it.
Even though I know I don’t really want anything from anyone.
To be honest, it sometimes feels like a burden when people congratulate me. I don’t know how to respond. I feel… emotionally untrained for something that intimate. I still find myself wondering: why do they care that I’ve added another number to my age? Of course, I say thank you. That’s the polite thing to do.
But the question stays.
I’ve also wondered why people celebrate their birthdays so much; spending money, organizing things, making it a big deal. I understand that some people find happiness in sharing moments like that with the people they love. I just… never really related to it.
So birthdays became insignificant to me. Just another day filled with deadlines, routines, and going back and forth between places.
At some point, I even asked people not to celebrate it at all. No cakes. No gifts. No greetings.
And yet, adding another number to my age is still something big. It means I’ve lived through another 365 days. It means something has happened, whether I acknowledge it or not.
This year felt different.
I didn’t expect anyone to say anything. Not even Ray. I didn’t even want people to realize it was my birthday.
But Ray, as always, was the first one who said, “Selamat ulang tahun, ya.”
His tone was softer. Colder, maybe, compared to previous years.
And suddenly, I felt like I didn’t deserve it.
I broke down. I cried on his shoulder, hard.
For a second, I thought, damn… the medication isn’t working. The meds that were supposed to suppress everything… just gave up.
But maybe that’s not what happened.
Maybe I’m still a woman, after all. Maybe I’m still someone who feels. Maybe?
Even if I’m a little messed up. Even if I don’t fully understand myself yet.
Maybe the medication didn’t fail me. Maybe it just gave me enough space to feel something different.
Not anxiety. Not fear. But gratitude.
I’m grateful that God still gives me life to live. Even if it’s not perfect, it’s still a life worth living.
I’m grateful that I finally sought help this year—seeing a psychologist, going to a psychiatrist, getting the medication I needed for my GAD and MDD, and continuing to monitor my CPTSD.
I’m grateful that I walked into that hospital and allowed myself to feel something I had avoided for so long.
I’m grateful that I went back to therapy and slowly opened up about my deepest trauma, even though it took me four weeks just to begin.
I’m grateful for the people who love me, who think about me, who stay when I need them.
I’m grateful that Ibu and Bapak are still here, still healthy.
I’m grateful for the strength I’ve built—the kind that helps me regulate my emotions, even when it’s hard.
I’m grateful that I’ve taken care of my body too. That I’ve lost some weight. That I keep showing up at the gym, even on days I don’t feel like it.
I’m grateful for everything that has happened in my life.
Even the things I’m still trying to understand.
Even the things I’m still trying to heal.
I think I’ve been given enough strength to face all of it.
So…
Happy 37th birthday, Rissa.
And thank you for surviving.
Maybe I didn’t need a celebration. Maybe I just needed to know that I still matter.
This piece was originally written on my personal journal
