My birthday was the 22nd of November, like it is each year. This year while turning 21 my grandmother died. Am I sad? The answer is no. The truth is I only met her twice in my life, once when I was a baby and she taught me how to walk, which I did on my first birthday. The second time was two years ago when I travelled alone to Peru to meet my family, for what felt to me like the first time. I think she loved seeing me again, but the more I learned about my family the more I learned about why my father became who he is. My grandmother didn’t have a lot of empathy and was very stubborn, like my father. She didn’t say goodbye to me when I was going back to Norway because I was living with her brother, and they obviously had some unresolved business. I never really liked birthdays anyway. My family has had so many problems that our birthdays were neglected. My mother though always makes the best out of it. She’s always there, my sister too, when the rest of the family doesn’t care. I’m used to not being remembered by my father, he doesn’t bother. I was supposed to be a boy. My last birthday my grandmother gave me a book about a girl that “changed for the better”, and stopped practicing the dangerous art of Yoga and found the way of God. She thinks my travels are dangerous and that I should become a missionary. Because everybody knows that yoga, communism or what ever is sinful. Why can’t family just be supportive?
I wish that someday I will be truly happy for being born, but I guess I’m not there yet. I’ve experienced a lot and I love life now, but the ghosts of my past are still haunting me, and it’s hard to let go and forgive.