Even as I write this title, it all seems surreal. Theres no way in hell and no chance on this green Earth that I've already gone around the sun 27 times. It seems impossible. Like a week that crawled by and but had weekends that went by too fast. Somehow, I feel older than this; like life has just been weighing me down too long. I also feel like I'm struggling to catch up with a calendar whose pages are peeling off in some fucked up montage someone pieced together for a goofy ass sitcom.
Just when I didn't really think it was possible for me to really change that much over the course of a year, here I am again, this time infinitesimally closer to the end of my time here, yet with a host of measurable changes. I couldn't sit here and tell you I actually remember what I did for my birthday last year. We were passing the year mark of the pandemic and I'd just had Daxius three months earlier. I was still in the clutching grip of postpartum depression. The weight was packing on and my insecurities were screaming in my ears, competing with the already over-the-top voices of my children.
I remember hating my birthday last year. Too many years in a row I let my birthday be a dreaded day, because it wasn't a day about me. No one remembered, no one did anything special, and I wasn't revered. But this year, something was different. This year I didn't even mention my birthday was nearing. On the day of, I didn't mention it all, even to my kids. I woke up to a happy birthday text from my best friend, and a call from my mom, but that didn't feel sufficient. My mom had given birth to me, so that was a given, and my best friend and I had shared our birthday celebrations for several years when we saw more of each other.
I didn't wake up to a birthday text from the man I'd shared a life with for the last almost 9 years. My dad forgot until my mom reminded him. And I have no else really. My friend Diana remembered, but she was far away and it just didn't feel the same. I didn't want anyone to know because anybody who didn't remember my birthday, when I strived to remember those of others, wasn't worth it. So I spent my day in a foul mood. But by midday, my mood started to shift. I answered the door to a beautiful edible arrangements from my kids' dad. It had all my favorite things and a heartfelt card with our kids' picture on it. Then I got a package from Diana with a keychain I LOVE, and a beautiful purple teddy bear. I got a text from my friend Leah, and then went out to dinner with my father and my kids.
I'd be lying if I didn't say that part of the reason my day picked up is because of those gifts. But by the end of the day, I realized it wasn't the gifts. The strawberries were gone as soon as my kids caught wind. Dax popped one of the balloons and commandeered the other. The girls stole the teddy bear and in the North Carolina heat, the flowers had started to wilt slightly. The keychain found its place on my keys at the bottom of my bag, and the teddy bear with its horde of friends in the girls' room.
What picked up my day was knowing that I was important enough to the people I cared about in my life for them to mark it. My kids' dad had never marked my birthday in such a fashion; he wasn't that kind of man. What he did was something I would do. I didn't have many friends, so why did it matter if anyone but them remembered? They kept me company on my day; it didn't matter that it was by text instead of in person. I felt loved, and that's what felt different.
26 was a rough year. There were so many times I thought I wouldn't make it. I thought my kids would take me over, and my sanity would break. 26 was a year where I felt lonely, I felt loss, I felt fat, I felt unimportant, and I felt unloved. I birthed my son squatting in my kitchen, terrified of a blossoming pandemic around me. I burrowed deeper into myself, unsure of who that was anymore. At 26, I almost lost my kids dad in a horrible accident, and I had never been so scared. I cried almost every night, and I just wanted to give it all up. I felt so unappreciated. I found myself wanting to be alone; no kids, no friends, no love. I picked up and moved my life to a city where I had no friends and no family. 26 proved to be very trying.
I can't say that 27 will be any better. Not much has changed really. But I did find that the people in my life do care about me. As I get older, the recognition matters less and the small things matter more. I'm more tame then the fire ball I used to be. I used to have such strong, resounding emotions. Now I'm a muted version of who I used to be, and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It means there's more time to think before I act, more time to absorb, and I'm better at self soothing. So here's to 27. May you be better than 26.
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