This is 40?
Technically I have 1 day to go but who’s counting right?
Heaven knows I’m not. It’s not like it isn’t like it is 17 hours and 54
minutes. 40 is just a number. It’s just a number.
Why do people say that? 18 was just a number but we
celebrate it. It is the entrance into adulthood. You get to vote. You become
responsible for your own actions legally. 21 is just a number but it’s the
number on your license that allows you into bars and allows you to purchase
those taste libations that make the end of the day so much sweeter.
When you look down at the scale and see your weight, those
are just numbers, right? Yet society places a huge (ignore the pun) emphasis on
that number. In fact your worth as a person can blindly be judged by that
number.
How many sexual partners you’ve acquired over the years is
just a number. The number of marriages/divorces and relationships are all just
numbers. The numbers of offspring are all just numbers but society keeps track.
And all of them are held accountable and we are measured against them. Yet when
a woman bemoans turning 40, everyone says, “It’s just a number.”
I had to handwrite this blog out first yesterday because I
have to limit the time I stare at a computer screen. My eyesight sucks and it
hurts. IIH is definitely taking a toll on my body. It’s rare and as such you
have to be your own advocate and educate doctors who may not know about the
disorder. I absolutely hate that it has slowed me down. It’s a pain in the ass.
Not literally, because the pain is behind the eyes and in my head. Ha! I kill
me.
Life throws a lot of curve ball and at times it seems as if
I’ve left my bat in the dugout. I get tagged over and over. I’m not going to
lie. In recent months I’ve gotten low. Really low. Probably lower than I have
ever been and that old familiar demon has reared its ugly head and drags me
under. Each day it is a struggle to break the surface and paste on a smile. I
find myself cocooned in solitude and I have no one but that insidious being.
The people I want and need the most are thousands of miles away and I reach for
the phone but stop because I feel like a burden.
That’s how depression drowns people. The anxiety side makes
you fearful of reaching out. You worry about EVERYTHING. No matter how
inconsequential it might seem to someone else, anxiety blows it up. The
absolute worst thing to say someone with anxiety would be, “Calm down, it is no
big deal.” It is always a big deal. Every hushed conversation is about us and
it is always negative. Every shut door is about us and it is about how bad we
are at something.
But c’est la vie. That is life. Que sera sera. At the end of the day we all have our own
demons. We are all fighting our own battles. All we have is our wits and each
other to cling to and support.
So as that clock ticks closer to 40 I’ll have moments of
despair where I evaluate my position on the field of life. I’ll take stock of
everything I’ve been through and where the next 50 years will take me and at
the end of the day I can say this with all certainty. I love myself much more
now than I did at 18, 21 or even 30.
I like who I am. I have a lot of scars, inside and outside,
that tell stories of what I have been through. All the lessons I’ve learned
over 40 years reside within me and some have actually stuck and I have
remembered them so as to not repeat them. I’m kind. I’m funny. I’m very
empathetic. I’m smart and witty. I’m beautiful inside and out.
Yeah that number on the scale needs to creep downward
alongside with the number on the tape measure around my waist but it, like my
mind, is always a work in progress.
The number of friends in my life may be less this year but
the ones in it are the ones that I know are meant to be. They are the ones that
have been there through thick and thin and are worth their weight in gold. So
welcome 40. Let’s see what adventures await us!
