The Strange Mood of Birthdays

I recall the time in highschool where I and my friends planned an elaborate birthday for my first girlfriend. She was very shy and suffered from a constant, unnameable anxiety that often prevented her from contributing to group conversations. Anytime she had a moment of emotional conflict, she would freeze and become incapable of speech. Completely motionless. And because her anxieties were general, these conflicts would often arise spontaneously, sometimes leaving her feeling isolated even when among her closest friends.

For her birthday, we all pitched in for a prop Master Sword because of her love for Twilight Princess. The sword was my idea. On the day, we blindfolded her and drove her to the park, where we revealed that we had a picnic planned for her by the pond. It was a fun time.

After food and gifts, we then decided to walk the path circumscribing the pond and chat with one another. However, I notice that she was conflicted and the two of us lag behind, eventually stopping at a bench to listen to the fountain that was nearby. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like her birthday party. And she would not, or perhaps could not, tell me why. I was quietly shocked, but stayed focused on listening to her silence with care, and butting in on occasion whenever my imaginary friend insists on it. Reasoning about her silence suddenly became a puzzle to be solved.

I remember thinking, “maybe she is not convinced that she deserved this kind of attention from her friends, as she knows that her anxiety has often prevented her from giving it in equal quality.” And as soon as I thought this, it vanished from cognition like it was snatched up by some outside force. Though, in truth, I cannot remember if I spoke this thought aloud to her.

Was I wrong? Was I right? Did the thought help? Did it make it worse? I don’t get any response. She sat on that bench, staring at the pond.