On this day 30 years ago, my mum was expecting her first (and only) bundle of joy. Me. I’m sure she was uncomfortable and ready for her next chapter to start, but I just wasn’t. I’ve been going at my own speed ever since. She understood that about me before she met me and never tried to change it.
My expected birthday has never been something I’ve really thought about before. Why would I? Does anyone think about the day they should have been born? Am I well on my way to overthinking madness?
My world doesn’t make any kind of sense any more so it seems like a good time to explore all of my options. Plus, I feel like I’m going to drive myself crazy if I don’t do something. Anything.
Grief has recently left me feeling lost and broken with no idea how to put the pieces back together again. For once I don’t feel like passing that off as an overly dramatic comment. The woman who brought me into this big, scary world has abandoned me. How do I pick up and carry on?
Top all that off with a pandemic and really just what is anything anymore?
The last few weeks I have felt like my mind has been slowly melting away. Like the last few months ‘progress’ have disappeared. Curling up and sleeping for a month seems like the most appealing thing in the world, with hydration breaks to make up for the crying. As appealing as that does sometimes seem, I know for me it will only send me further down a grief spiral.
A new decade in my life has to be an opportunity. A fresh chapter full of new experiences and challenges. Building myself back into a person being the first one. The world is my oyster from there. Too short to filled with so much pain and not enough excitement.