All the voices in my mind/Calling out across the line

I spent most of this weeks counselling session railing against birthdays.
"Why do I get presents and attention? It's my mum that did all the hard work!"
And today when the office suddenly burst into chorus of happy birthday, it took me a moment to realise I was included in the song along with the other two people having their birthday this weekend. I had automatically started singing to them. 

I didn't want the singing to be for me.

When pressed to consider why, the answer is simple: I want to feel special, but when the spotlight is shone on me I don't feel I deserve it. 
This isn't restricted to birthdays. This is all the time. I don't want the spotlight on me for anything, despite wanting to feel appreciated, acknowledged and special, because I'm terrified that if the spotlight shines too bright people will see what I'm really worth.

Which, in my mind, is nothing.
Or at least very little. 

And yet I keep going. What for? If I consider my life so futile, so worthless, what reason do I have to keep doing everything I'm doing?

Because I'm trying to find my worth. I'm trying to earn it. Even though I know that if I earn success and achievements I won't automatically feel ok and like my life is worth something. 
That isn't something that will happen with one achievement, one success. 
That has to be worked on and happen gradually and continuously forever. 

Part of this comes from realising this is my first birthday without my granddad. 5 and a half months on I'm still mourning, and lately I've been preoccupied with worrying whether or not I'm making him proud. 
How you can make a deceased loved one proud is something I haven't worked out yet...

It fascinates me that I, and most of humankind, feel entitled to happiness. Is that a symptom of a world with ever increasing challenges despite our ever improving technology and services? Or is this a primitive instinct?

Is it one that can ever be achieved? Do we ever win the the race of the pursuit of happiness?

I look down at my tanned legs, and see the bright white scars highlighted by the pigmentation from sun exposure. The scars stand out so much brighter against the darkened backdrop. I looked at them earlier, and I cried. I cried and I cried, and then I smiled.

The challenge for me is to recognise that these scars, that I caused, are not a sign of weakness. Instead, they are a sign that I have survived, against the odds that I stack against myself.

Constantly saying "I'm worried about... I worry about..." isn't because I over-anxious necessarily. I do need to relax and calm down and accept the flow a bit more but it also shows that I care. I'm allowed to care. But not so much it makes me ill.

And I need to accept that the spotlight shines on me one day a year, for reasons I find unnecessary, and it's ok to be uncomfortable with that. For at least one day a year, people think I am worth celebrating, because I was lucky to be born and and to some extent lucky to still be here, but with gritted teeth and no lack of trying, I have stuck it out for 26 years. 

I'll take it. Here's to birthdays: The day you get to celebrate your mother's reproductive organs!