I generally have looked upon every birthday after 30 as extra lives. HOLY CRAP! I honestly thought I'd be worm food by now. Spending years in the throes of suicidal angst will do that to a person. Then, the minute I got over the whole emo-before-emo-was-a-thing-please-kill-me-now-I-don't-wanna-live-nothing-can-make-me-happy phase of my life: cancer. Then I kicked cancer's ass for 10 years before it came back. And at 30... I was no where near death. I'd had a few near escapes, but I was pretty healthy at 30. Huh? How'd that happen?
31 and 32 weren't my best years. Actually, I wasn't really there. I was broken, I was a shell. 33 has been a bitch of a growing year. I actually loved it. I am more aware of myself, who I am, what I want, what I'm doing than I ever have been. I walk through my life with purpose now. I am fully invested. I alone am responsible for what my life looks like at this point.
So, the hardest part of turning 34 tomorrow is forward momentum. I've changed so much in the last year that I'm afraid I might not be able to keep it going. How self-aware can I get? Do I want to be? Am I going to be happy this year? Will I get complacent in my mental health that I get lazy and let the depression creep back in? How self-absorbed am I going to be? Will I be a good enough mom for Liam?
I've made promises to myself and Liam that I never intend to break, and most of them are about keeping our lives safe, and happy. I just wonder if I can keep it going.
So yeah, getting older is hard. But not because I don't want to be old. Because I worry I'm not doing enough with these years I never thought I'd have.
No comments:
Post a Comment