My birthday is next Wednesday. I'm turning the dreaded thirty. I don't know why this age is bothering me so much, but it's terrifying. Everyone I speak to tells me they had a hard time with it, too, although once it was over it wasn't as much of a big deal as they thought it would be. Why, then, is my rational mind having such a hard time coming to terms with this age?
I sit here, in a house I bought all on my own, with a well adjusted life, and wonder what the hell I'm so upset about. I should be happy, proud, and satisfied, but somehow I'm still afraid of missing something.
I see my friends running around in their hectic, expensive lives where taking a shower is a luxury and wonder if that's the kind of life I still want: married, 2.5 kids, white picket fence and a golden retriever chasing a cat around the yard. When I was young, up until I met Sean, I always said I didn't want kids, didn't want to get married. I didn't think my personality fit into that lifestyle. Suddenly being with him, everything changed. I had dreams of us living together, him talking to the child in my womb, taking care of me. Looking back now, I see how much of myself I changed to maintain that relationship. It really is amazing what a woman will do to keep up appearances - even one as independent and strong willed as I.
The funniest thing of all is that I didn't even know I was changing. I was slowly boiling in a pot on steadily increasing heat; the temperature never went up enough at once to warn me away, and one day I woke up dead.
I know I don't want to go through that hell again. What could have been the best years of my life instead turned out to be a horrific, painful waste of time. Youth truly is wasted on the young; if only we could all be Benjamin Button.
My doctor told me last week that I have "come so far in the last two and a half years" since I sat on his table crying dry tears and ready for death. I am clear headed now, and I am as happy as I can be in my constant drug-numbed state; so much so that he tells me I don't need the drugs anymore. I am "cured." I never wanted to take them to begin with, but I needed help then. I wonder what life will be like as "me" again. Will I be the "me" that loves quiet, solitary moments and never wanted kids or commitments, or will I be the "me" that doesn't want to be alone? It's an interesting trip I'm on, I'll tell you.
Maybe I just told myself I wanted the expensive, hectic version of the "american dream" because that's what he wanted. Say something often enough, eventually you will start to believe it. The rational me knows that I have an incredible life that many others say they envy - I come and go as I please, I don't answer to anyone other than my dog, I make more than the average american - enough to afford a house, a car and other luxuries comfortably. I love my job, have a loving (if dysfunctional) family and I have many friends that love me. Rationally, I know that I have enough, but it's a constant battle. I don't know why I have to keep reminding myself of all the good things in life.
Rationality doesn't always win, despite what others say.
