Thursday is my birthday. I will be 38 years old.
I wondered if I would want to write about it. I wondered if I could really make myself put down on paper all the things this upcoming milestone has made me feel and think about.
I thought I knew how I’d start: 37 was the worst year of my life.
In fact, I was sure that’s how I would start.
Because of the relationship I chose, it was a year of hiding and worrying and making excuses and swallowing indignities. Nodding and smiling while choking back demands and tears. All with the promise that there’d be relief and redemption at the end – neither of which ever came. All of the slog with none of the reward. Looking for closure? You’re in the wrong part of town, kid.
This month-plus of lockdown leading up to 38, much of it spent alone in my little place, has left me feeling pretty sorry for myself. I read “there’s no one I’d rather be quarantined with!” anniversary posts through a haze of jealousy. Coupled friends’ photos of all the things “we” cooked and cleaned and built while hunkered down at home feel like a personal affront – I never knew I could carry such hatred for a pronoun. My really good buddy mentioned on a row that she sees this as a chance for all of us to build deeper connections with one another, and talked about how great it was to have her son, daughter-in-law, and baby grandchild at home with her and her husband. I almost flipped my goddamn boat over as I whirled around to snap: “It’s different when you’re alone.”
My feelings have been ugly, self-pitying, and gross. But they’ve been real. And they’ve been overwhelming.
I sat here for a while staring at that line at the top of the page: 37 was the worst year of my life. And the more I looked at it, the more it pissed me off.
Because there are so many reasons that that is patently ridiculous. At 37 I watched sunsets in Asia, Africa, and New Zealand with my best friends in the world. My 8+ flew down the Head of the Charles course as bow #1 in the final race on the final day, blaring the Lion King soundtrack and crushing everybody on raw time. I spent holidays with my family and weekends with my friends. I started going to therapy for the first time – which was scary. Now I don’t know where I’d be without it. I lived in Seattle for a month. I have teams of co-workers and clients who all made it possible for me to do that. I dated a boy there (age appropriate!) who made me realize I’ll fall for other people again, and that it will feel wonderful. I taught classes at BU and at Emerson for two of the people who gave me my start in advertising. I learned how to scuba dive. I learned how to cook. I slept on the air mattresses and couches of friends who made it their mission to remind me I wasn’t alone.
The worst year of my life? Writing that is a slap in the face to the people I love. And who love me back. Even when all I can see is downside and all I do is cry.
It is also a sign that I am not putting in the work that therapy has taught me to do – which might be the thing that’s pissing me off the most because that shit is expensive.
When you think about it, this whole lockdown situation is kind of the ultimate test of what I spent my 37th year working really hard on: it’s just me, my four walls, and my mind. Yes, I was in a bad relationship that fucked me up pretty bad. But I’m not in it anymore. Today I’m in tens and tens of relationships that make me feel awesome and special and smart and seen. I’m sitting on a white couch that I successfully got Graham’s red wine stain out of. I spend my days on calls with some of the most hilarious and talented people in advertising – and they’re really good people. When the wind’s not whipping out of the northeast and for as long as the docks are open, I can get in my little boat, shove off from land, listen to the drop of my blades and watch my puddles fan out in front of me. I have friends I’ve known since I turned 23 who have gone so far above and beyond to take care of me these last five weeks that I don’t know how I’ll ever thank them. And if I don’t look around and see and feel those things for exactly what they are, then I’m a fool. I didn’t cause the pain that radiated through this past year. But I’m in charge of whether it keeps going.
I have a mind that loves to wander back in time, examining and reexamining my memories. I have a mind that confuses letting go of pain with giving up, or giving in. Or surrendering. I’ve been able to think my way into and out of a lot of stuff. But I can’t think my way into a different past, or a future that can’t and shouldn’t be. My 38th birthday isn’t going to feel rapturous like my 37th. But it is going to feel real. Because if I can hold my mind still – and I can, I paid a lot to learn how – I’ll be able to see, and talk to, and text, and Zoom with, and appreciate all of the people in my life who’ve stuck with me. Even when I wandered into places we all knew I shouldn’t go. They were waiting for me when I made my way back out. They’re here now and so am I.
So I deleted my shitty first line. Because it isn’t true. 37 was hard. And heartbreaking. And infuriating. And beyond exhausting. And it was so, so sad. And it was also euphoric. And exciting. And hysterical. And instructive. And now…it’s almost over. I want to look at it for the next couple days, and see it for what it is. And then I want to let it go. Will 38 be better? Sweet baby jesus I hope so. But I have to start by letting it just be.
