29 is a bad birthday

The cusp of 3 decades seems overwhelming,

I feel like a failure and a waste.

I can tell that the organic matter that composes my existence is rotting, waiting to be dust and dirt and ash.

Maybe because the whole year was monumentalized by a car accident that nearly took my life and requires many hours over many months to even have a hint of normal function.

Maybe it’s because I went from roaming the world to working a desk job.

Maybe it was the global pandemic.

But if there is anything true, it is that my 29th year on the planet was bad.

On the eve of my birthday, I feel depressed, anxious, trapped, unappreciated, and ever aware of the continual loss of time that makes up my life, the loss of energy and patience, even the loss of ambition.

It’s a horrible feeling but let’s unpack where it comes from.

First. The Injury. I can’t express how painful it is to catch the scar in the mirror, or feel the uneven lump on my collar bone where bits are drilled into my skeleton, a poor mimic of a cluster of snapped ligaments. The car didn’t just give me a concussion. It gave me a fear and stress level that I have not yet let go.

It still aches sometimes. I’m still building my strength back, slowly creeping. But mostly it’s aesthetic and mostly it’s mental. But that doesn’t make it any less challenging. My physical form being tied to my mental state isn’t something I’ve very much experienced before. I was so proud of my body, genetic lottery and physical craft. But now all I can see is the flaw. I’m hyperfocused on how uneven the collar is. How it seems to jut out of every shirt I own. How it doesn’t quite align to it’s mirror twin on the other side.

I don’t know, I’m wholly fixated on it and I cannot pull my eyes away. It’s horrible.

Second, I feel trapped and useless. I don’t produce anything at my day job that I’m proud of. I’m simply in an amazing position because of my boss’s generosity. I haven’t written anything I like in months; I can’t seem to find the rhythm again. Uprising is fine but I’m not even satisfied with fine. I can’t seem to get the work done to advance it at all. Spanish is a endless cycle of Duolingo streaks and forgetting basic words. I’m just flailing in the surf.

I just want to run away again. Life on the road was much more exciting. I felt freedom and used that freedom to create, to be joyful, to exist. That simplistic living was rewarding and gave me space to focus on the projects I wanted to complete.

Now it seems that life is more frantic, more vibrant even; but all of that dulls into the background of routine. Moot. Shallow.

Third, my relationship has soured. What once was flow and joy has become halting conversation, miscommunications, and hurt feelings. It’s been a supremely stressful time with travel and friends and career platforms that take over the weight and energy put into each other. Now the rough bits aren’t polished over but catch and bit against each other. It bothers me a lot and puts me into emotional tailspins all the time. I don’t feel appreciated. I don’t feel wanted. I feel undervalued and overlooked and I’m trying to avoid being really resentful about it.

 But every time I try to push it aside, the things keep coming up. I’m not remotely satisfied in this relationship and yet I am stepping up into it every day, all the time. But I’m not worth 10 minutes. That’s truly how she feels about it. A break is good, and it was coming anyway. There’s no good time, but it is a weed that must be cleared to make space for more growth.

That doesn’t make it less painful. My emotional state still careens in wildly different directions. I am at a complete loss of what to do. I don’t know if avoiding is better than accepting; if running is better than communicating. I’m a whirlpool of live wires, sparking and spitting and angry on the tides of loneliness. It definitely doesn’t help that it’s my first breakup; I’m too new to the feeling to know what my best options are and that contributes to my flailing.

Still.

Still.

At the end of everything the little pieces I pull together might be inconsistent. Many times, they are insufficient. But I still do try. I’m gathering little dust bunnies trying to make a mountain. It may not be soon, it may not be what I imagined. But I can take heart that I continue gathering.

That’s not nothing. And this life guarantees you nothing. Life isn’t anything substantial. Yet I’m still doing something with it. That’s a pretty good cause for celebration.

Cheers to this year, and the remaining ones I’m God-blessed to have.