This is my day. It’s like every other day, except it’s mine.

I never wanted it. I spent most of my life trying to give it away. It was five years ago when a promise of forever convinced me that I should hold on to it, save my life for one more day, save that day for safekeepings.

It was five years ago that I was in love. But it didn’t matter how much I loved, and it didn’t matter how much of me I was willing to give away, including my heart, including my sanity, including my day. No amount of selflessness can fix you when you’re broken, when you’ve been beaten down and made to feel like dirt.

So, I wanted to give up; and I nearly did so many times. For the longest, I told myself the reason I allowed my heart to keep on beating was that of another, and their promise that they would always be there. That they were the hero, that they were the ones that saved me.

Even now, looking back on this five year anniversary of my birthday in recovery, I find it hard not to refer to it as the loss. I find it hard not to refer to it as the heartache, as broken promises, as another year since the war has ended. As another nightmare of the broken bottles smashing. As another day to grieve those who are still alive but no longer with me. As a reminder of all of the times I came close to not seeing another day at all.

It’s hard, even still, to not make this day about anyone other than myself. To cower in the shadows, to watch it from outside of my own body, wondering what it’s like to be celebratory.

But each year, it gets a little bit easier.

Year one, I reclaimed my body.
Year two, I reclaimed my freedom.
Year three, I reclaimed my heart.
Year four, I reclaimed my name.
Year five, I reclaim my home.

For those along the way who have handed me the seeds, I will never forget. But five years has taught me that I had to plant them, water them, and let me bloom again. No one saved me, I saved myself.

When I look at the flowers, it’s because I love them, not because you did. I can stand among them, touching them freely, claiming them for anything that I wish.

Everything that I create is created by me, the pain that has made me, is always apart of me, but it does not own me. You do not own me. At the end, it is only me. And I am alive, and five years later, I want to be.

And even though I still grieve, and I still cry, I know I'm moving forward. I own this day, it no longer belongs to anyone else.

Happy Birthday to me.