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I hate my birthday.

I know that in my typical narrative pieces, I tend to joke around a lot. But this, unfortunately, is not a joke. I wish it fucking was.

It feels like every other person on this planet holds deep excitement around their birthday — at the thought of balloons displaying their brand new age and a cake with their name in frosted cursive.

Even some of the most pessimistic people I know love their birthday. I mean, I feel stupid. It's a day literally celebrating my own existence. It's a day meant to be all for me. It's the one day I could get away with anything I want, like eating five slices of pizza or vehicular manslaughter. Y'know, fun birthday stuff.

But I can't. The idea of sitting in a restaurant surrounded by my loved ones, waiting for everyone to sing me happy birthday makes me feel sick to my stomach. Every June, this nauseating feeling of anxiety lingers. I literally have panic attacks the day before my birthday.

I don't plan anything. I specifically request the people around me to not plan anything either.

I haven't had an actual birthday party for myself since I was a kid. And it's not like nobody would come. Every year, my friends ask what I am planning on doing, and I always say, "I have no idea" because saying, "probably crying and nothing" sounds pathetic.

People are usually surprised by this because I definitely don't seem like the type of person to hate their birthday.

One reason is because I love other people's birthdays. I have this special thing I do for my friend's birthdays — I post this giant collage of photos of them on Instagram. This might seem basic, but you must understand, this is a big deal for me.

I can't use the same photos from the year before, not a single one, and every inch of space Instagram gives you for a story has to be covered. Along with the photos, I meticulously place gifs of that person's favorite animal. I have folders in my phone for each friend for this occasion. The whole ordeal takes up to an hour. I am known for my birthday posts. I started a trend among my friends. I take this shit seriously.

Another reason is that I am a bit of an attention whore. I am a loud person, and when I can't think of anything to say, I start telling rapid-fire jokes. I don't have social anxiety and talking in front of a crowd has never been a problem for me. I also love myself. I think I'm the shit. 

So why would an attention-seeking, overly talkative person who seems to love everyone else's birthday hate their own? It's the one day of the year when all the attention is on me. I don't need to force people to look at me; they're supposed to.

It doesn't make sense, and I feel like I am the only person who feels this way. I want to get to the bottom of this. I want to feel normal.

I've decided to psychoanalyze myself, and all the readers of the State Press Magazine are free to poke around in my mind. I, Gib Manrique, am being vulnerable. 

"Fragapanophobia"

The word above means "fear of birthdays." This idea is discussed in a Sydney Morning Herald piece by writer Mary Ward, in which she talks to Melissa Norberg, an associate professor at Macquarie University's Centre for Emotional Health.

Norberg said she had never heard of anyone experiencing this phobia and that it may be a symptom of other issues, such as "a social anxiety disorder or generalized anxiety disorder."

Who the fuck is surprised? Mr. "One of the most severe cases of generalized anxiety disorder my therapist has ever seen," isn't. (That's me, by the way!)

Norberg discussed how this fear could stem from the stress of a birthday party and what that means socially or the idea of one's mortality and the passage of time. 

This gives me some clarity. It makes perfect sense that the issues may not be the actual birthday itself, but what the birthday represents or is associated with. There are two main aspects of a birthday that give me anxiety, which is important to note so no one thinks I'm running away in fear of Party City streamers. 

"The mortifying ordeal of being known" 

If you were active on the social media site Tumblr circa 2013-2014, you have probably heard this quote before. It comes from a New York Times article by Tim Kreider titled, "I Know What You Think of Me." The piece is about Kreider's complex feelings with knowing that the people around you are perceiving you and your actions at all times — a realization he made after accidentally receiving an email that was about him and some goats.

The piece blew up on Tumblr and became a running gag among users for years, as I got this information from the very credible source knowyourmeme.com.

This is absolutely one of the most terrifying things of all time.

ME?? BEING KNOWN??? PEOPLE KNOW DEEP THINGS ABOUT ME?????? 

That's the worst. My issues with actually letting people in can probably be attributed to a few things, like hiding from everyone that I was transgender for a decade and a half or feeling like a freak among my peers growing up because of early onset childhood mental illness. Both are equally fun options.

Without any real connections with people, my life didn't feel worth celebrating. I was terrified that because I didn't let anyone in, no one would actually care enough to celebrate my birthday with me. It would always be an afterthought.

Why would someone drive to my house to celebrate me, a person they barely know?

In hindsight, this is bullshit. Every year of my life, I have always had people wishing me well and wanting to hang out with me on my birthday. I have always had people who really knew me, or at least thought they did. There are people who truly understand every aspect of who I am, but is the real me even good enough to celebrate anyway?

Whatever. Obviously this fear isn't prominent in all aspects of my life, considering I'm opening up to a bunch of random people who picked up this issue from a newsstand. Most of the time, I know I'm super cool and awesome and if people don't like me, that's their loss. 

There's just some sick little twisted part of my brain that gets activated every June. I always feel like I have to spray it with water like a cat every time these negative thoughts creep back in. Sometimes, it also feels like I'm beating it to death with a pole. 

WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!!!!!! 

The movie "All Dogs Go to Heaven" taught a 5-year-old me the concept of death. Which is soooo fucked up.

I remember watching the end of the movie where the main character, Charlie, a talking dog, dies and goes to heaven, distraught from having to leave the little girl he became friends with. I remember sobbing and running to my dad, begging him to bring the dog on the TV screen back. He said we could just replay the movie and the dog would show up on the screen again.

That wasn't what I wanted, but how the hell was I supposed to explain to my 32-year-old dad he unknowingly traumatized the fuck out of his first child. I seemed to develop a fear of death that consumed me every time I closed my eyes. I would spend hours awake at night replaying this idea in my head. I get a pit in my stomach thinking about this movie 15 years later. 

This, of course, was not my dad's fault. I love my dad dearly. He just happened to have a child with a debilitating anxiety disorder. C'est la vie or whatever.

It's not like I was scared of the act of dying. I didn't lie awake at night fearing it would be painful if I got run over by a train or that someone would kidnap and kill me. None of that really mattered in the end.

What mattered to me was what happened after. How was a 7-year-old kid supposed to cope with the fact that one day, all the thoughts that constantly play in my head, darting and fleeting, would just stop?

My anxiety was kind of stopping me from doing much else, so all I had was this bullet train of thoughts keeping me wired all the time, causing me to pace so much I left an indentation in the shag carpet
in our living room. This bullet train in my head was keeping me going, and someday it would just pull into the station. Permanently.

I basically just freaked the fuck out. I was having a midlife crisis when I was nine.

All this goes to say that the concept of death is terrifying. Whether you're scared of pain or the existentialism of it all, it is a scary-ass thing to think about, and unfortunately, a birthday can represent another year before that bomb is dropped. 

The reward of being loved

I have something to confess. I have a horrible and terrible and disgusting and quite honestly appalling thing to confess.

This year, on my 20th birthday, I was happy.

WHAT? YOU WERE HAPPY? MR. I HATE MY BIRTHDAY?

Yes, I know. I have betrayed all of you. I had a really good birthday this year, and not once did I have a panic attack in a bathroom or cry myself to sleep. I am just as shocked as you are.

I was on vacation with my family. I woke up, and my parents had decorated the hotel room with cartoon dog streamers they got from Target. We went to the zoo, and then we went to a nice dinner. We walked around a beach, and my siblings and I pushed each other into the sand.

Does this sound like the birthday of a 7-year-old boy? Maybe. But I don't care. I was genuinely happy and excited.

I wish I could pinpoint why on this birthday, specifically, I decided to be happy. I think it had something to do with being on vacation, so that fear I had about none of my friends being with me to celebrate was eliminated because they physically couldn't. I think it also had to do with the fact that it was my 20th, and I felt like I owed it to my younger self to be happy.

I also decided that none of it mattered, but like in a non-depressing way.

I feel like part of the reason people are so scared of death is because they're worried about running out of time — that they can go through life without ever knowing the meaning behind it.

I have my own idea of what it all means.

Going back to the whole concept of "the mortifying ordeal of being known" — within my 10 years of knowing this phrase, I never considered the entire piece. I only focused on that one key element without really thinking about the point of Kreider's article.

The full quote in the article reads, "If we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known."

Since being on medication and finally coming to terms with who I am, I have never felt more loved in my entire life. I have a fabulous relationship with my parents and siblings, who accepted me with open arms. I have deep connections with my friends and can finally be open about my interests and emotions. I have a partner and best friend who understands me better than I have ever been able to understand myself.

Being known is, in a way, being loved.

I am loved and I love, wholeheartedly. So why does any of it fucking matter? Who cares if I am secretly embarrassing or some random girl from sophomore year of high school didn't wish me a happy birthday?

This terrifying idea of ceasing to exist is nullified because if people know who I am and can tell stories and remember me and what I did in my life, then I will never really stop existing. If I can exist in the memories of those who matter, then I can stay alive forever.

If I die tomorrow, I can at least die knowing I am loved. I can die knowing people will keep my memory alive. I have the privilege of forming true human connection and being understood for who I am, and that's what I believe to be the meaning of life.

So in a way, the thing that kept me so terrified of my birthday cured my fear a little bit too.

It's not completely gone. I don't really like seeing my friends on the day of my birthday, but I'll see them the day after. We can have a cake they decorated for me, and I can get presents that are probably knick knacks from Goodwill that made them think of me.

Maybe in 10 years I'll throw a massive party in a New York penthouse. I'll be shot through a cannon and have my full name in lights or some- thing. You're all invited.

But for now, I can keep waking up to cartoon dog decorations and going to the zoo with my family. And that's enough for me. 

Edited by Savannah Dagupion, Leah Mesquita and Audrey Eagerton. 

This story is part of The Generation Issue, which was released on December 4, 2024. See the entire publication here.

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Reach the reporter at amanri14@asu.edu and follow @iamGibManrique on X.

Like State Press Magazine on Facebook, follow @statepressmag on X and Instagram and read our releases on Issuu.

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