It’s My Party, I’ll Cry If I Want To

On Barbie Jeeps, Broken Promises, and Birthday Blues

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Note: This essay mentions suicidal ideation.

Exodus 20:12 (2016)

My mother told me not once,
but again and again,
that every time you sin against your parents, 
God takes time off your life.

So, when I was
cat curled into a ball,
sweaters in august,
leaving class early 
in tears,
forgetting how to feed myself.

It was then, 
when I hoped 
I had sinned against my parents enough
to find loving salvation in death.

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Before I dreamed of death, I dreamed of a Barbie Jeep.

The Toys R Us commercial for the Barbie® Beach Ranger played so often that I memorized it. Before falling asleep, I would project images of the pink, purple, and blue battery-powered vehicle onto the insides of my eyelids before I fell asleep.

I still cannot remember wanting anything more. It was all I could think and talk about for months. After asking relentlessly, my uncle promised to buy me one as a joint birthday and Christmas gift. The Jeep did not arrive at our tiny apartment in Philadelphia that year — the following year, or the one after that — and my heart broke.

I could not lose hope.

Mom told me it was possible to pray to God for anything and that God would answer your prayer if your heart were pure. I prayed neurotically, but they did not work. I worried my heart was not pure enough and I did not deserve an answered prayer.

There was still hope.

When the prayers didn’t work, my older cousin introduced a pivotal life hack — “wishies.” These were seeded dandelions with white globes of exposed seeds, often called “puffballs.” Making a wish while blowing away the seeds would grant me my desires. I picked the lawns around the apartment complex clean and wished for this Barbie Jeep more times than I can count. But it never came.

I stopped praying and wishing. There was no more hope.

Barbie® Beach Ranger, 2001

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I am ten years old and showing my best friend a drawing. I hand it to her and laugh. When she opens it, her face falls.

“Suicide isn’t funny, Richelle.”

Drawn in thick marker is the lower half of my body, suspended by a rope above a toppled chair.

I am confused.

What is suicide, and why does she make it sound so severe? I thought to myself.

I cannot recall the first time I thought of killing myself. Regardless of how many friends I had or how perfect everything seemed, I felt the world was worse because of my existence. When I showed my friend this drawn confession, it all felt inevitable.

Though we remained friends for years, I never spoke to her about those dark thoughts again, at least not seriously. That moment did not change how I viewed taking my life, but it changed how I talked about it with others.

Once I started hiding the pain through jokes, other people started laughing.

Truthfully, I knew suicidal ideation was not and is not funny. However, an abundance of systemic obstacles prevented me from getting help with my pain. My family did not understand; my friends could only offer loving support.

I believed too many things were wrong with me and that the deep sadness within me was a deserved darkness.

I did not dream of the Barbie Jeep anymore. It only reminded me of disappointment and lies.

Dreaming of death felt like the only way out.

Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

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I feared hospitalization and was painstakingly aware of the seriousness and danger of the situation. There are too many reports of Black people being harmed while experiencing mental health crises. The recent deaths of Andrew “Drew” Washington and Victoria Lee resulted after requesting emergency mental health services.

I felt torn between my desire to get better and the fear of revealing what was inside my head.

This year, I began regularly attending grief groups to learn how to externalize the pain. Empathizing with people in my community gave me space to truly understand grief and her process. Sometimes, grief shapeshifts into anger, frustration, or bargaining. And sometimes grief arrives when she’s least expected.

It took time to get comfortable speaking with others about the unbearable weight of being alive. And when I did, I felt embraced with empathy, love, and understanding. The shame and guilt continued to wash away every time I felt safe, openly naming what had haunted me in silence for so long. And yet, learning about grief does not stop the feeling.

Healing is not one momentous event.

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Recently, I was vulnerable with someone whose actions eventually did not match their flowery words. Although they admitted they were misleading me, they insisted all my frustrations with their actions could not be their fault.

I tried my hardest to use all my coping skills — meditation, journaling, playing guitar, knitting, and naming the grief with loved ones. However, this breach of trust and communication still sent me spiraling. I could not eat or sleep. I held in tears at work, in the grocery store, and on the bus. Suddenly, I felt unlovable, remembering when people had let me down or deceived me.

Seething, I drew lines back to the “wishies,” prayers, and that damn Barbie Jeep.

Typically, something like this would not bother me too much, but my heart really hurt, and all I could do was ruminate on my past.

The wounded part of me, who I hid away, began walking in daylight with me. And though I did not want them to, the thoughts of killing myself came back.

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I have come to understand that my fixation on the Barbie Jeep was never about the toy itself; it was a longing for escape and determination to break away from my surroundings. Vividly, I imagined myself behind the wheel, driving away to a place where joy, warmth, and brightness surrounded me — anywhere that was not my house.

Each year, my birthday feels like something I can never outrun or outbusy myself from forgetting. Friends are often traveling or too preoccupied with the chaos of the holidays to remember the date. Each celebration shared with others summons a shadow of anxiety that gnaws at me and triggers a lingering deep disappointment within me.

While most people celebrate their birthday with others, I spend the day in quiet reflection, honoring the complex mix of joy and grief from fighting to see another year.

I am reminded of a young Richelle, brimming with hope, picking dandelions on Salaignac Street, whispering silent prayers to feel seen.