Essay 136: Turning 45

Today is my last day as a 44 year old. The COVID 19 global pandemic has defined this past year. Quarantines. Social distancing. Masks. Trying to stay healthy. Trying to stay alive. Hoping that those you love will too. So many people did die. Some I knew: my friend’s father; a long time student of our martial arts school; a friend of a friend. 

I’m one of the lucky ones, again, and so it seems that I will live to be 45 years old. 

It’s tempting to think that this means something.
That I’ll wake up tomorrow and finally choose all that is good for me.
That I’ll start the day exercising.
That I’ll drink enough water.
That I’ll go to bed at a decent hour, having resisted the temptation to eat cookies, or chocolate, or both.
That I’ll lose the 15 lbs I let pile on my thighs in the past twelve months.  

It’s tempting to believe that one extra year is going to transform me and that I’ll finally say the right thing, make the right choices, be the wife and mother I want to be.

Ironically, BECAUSE I have matured, I know this is wishful thinking. 

Tomorrow, I’ll be eating my birthday “cake” of choice since moving to America in 1998: a Tarte aux Pommes*, lovingly homemade by a friend. I’ll be opening gifts my wonderful husband and daughter have taken the time to get for me. I will not cook nor clean. The day will be different but I will be the same. Unless I choose not to be. 

A birthday brings with it no magic but it does offer the opportunity to pause, reflect, re-calibrate. Another January 1st of sort.

The past few months have been hard for me as my struggle with depression and anxiety continues. A year of psycho-therapy tremendously helped but my brain chemicals seem to have adapted to the medication and patches of grey are once again clouding my judgment, overshadowing my enjoyment of life. 

The world sees me, oblivious of the war raging inside. I’m good at going through the motions. It is exhausting work!
The battle is never-ending yet silent and invisible. Inside me there is an ever ready fighter who wakes up every morning sword in hand, guiding me through the fog and the darkness, ready to protect me at all costs. 

She slashes at my doubts. 
She cuts through my worries. 

She is strong like a warrior and gentle like a mother. 
She is stubborn as a mule and kind like a friend. 
She is the reason why I am still here. 

This birthday and all the ones that came before, I owe to her. 
To her persistence. 
To her grit. 
To her everlasting hope in a brighter future. 
To her never-ending trust in me. 
As long as I have her, I know I shall be fine. 

Suffer, undeniably, but endure. 
Struggle, maybe, but survive. 
Die, ultimately, but first LIVE. 

Tomorrow, I’ll celebrate. I won’t worry about exercise, diet, or anything else. I’ll enjoy the day simply because. No matter what kind of havoc chemicals are playing in my head, I’m still conscious enough to know that a birthday is not something to take for granted; that I am blessed beyond measure; that I am loved. 

I get the gift of one more day, maybe even one more year.
Lucky me!

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Thank you for reading. Since a birthday is a time to make decisions and set goals, I have decided to write again. 🙂