The annual birthday missive

Hello all (sorry to anyone who doesn't want this. just don't read, delete, whatever.),

Today is one week out from my 30th birthday. I don't mind turning 30 all that much. It's not a frightening number for me. If anything, I'll be happy to be out of my 20s and all they meant in my life.

But here I am, looking at what I have and haven't done with my life. I can't help but make comparisons to the achievements of others, and I can't help but always fall short. I do know that this is the result of who I compare myself to; there are plenty of comparisons in which I come out the victor. It's just not in my brain to make those comparisons, though. I make the correlations that leave me failing,
that leave me unsuccessful, that leave me crying in a corner.

Why do I do this to myself?

I wish I could say that I do it to make myself better, to challenge myself. I don't. I do it to make myself miserable. I do it to tear myself down further than anything else in the world possibly could. I do it to hit rock bottom.

'Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire?
Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threatning to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n.'

I'd like to say that my 30s will be different, that I'll find some inner joy that will raise me above this self-destructive comparison cycle. I know I won't, though. I know I'll carry on for another 10 years, until at the verge of 40, I'm writing some missive lamenting the same damn thing.

Why are these things always so damn depressing?

I have no problem turning 30, but I do have a problem with my life. I have a problem with how little I've accomplished (no matter my accomplishments, I feel they should have and could have been so much greater). I have a problem with how little I've prepared myself (no matter the preparation, I always fall flat). I have a problem with my direction (do I have direction?).

I don't write these things for sympathy. I write them for a personal record of where I am each year. I write them in the hopes that, in some future era, they'll be of interest to somebody. In the hopes that, in some future era, I'll be of interest to somebody.

Here's what I know. I'm about to turn 30 and I don't yet have a doctorate of any kind. This bothers me. I'm about to turn 30 and I'm back to renting. This bothers me. I'm about to turn 30 and I don't have a job. This bothers me. I'm about to turn 30 and the family I grew up with no longer exists. This bothers me. I'm about to turn 30 and I don't know what I want out of life. This bothers me. I'm about
to turn 30 and all the goals I had when I was 18 seem foolish and pointless. This bothers me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

Here's what else I know. I'm about to turn 30 and I'm not going down without a fight. In spite of all my sleeping away of days, I'm still ready to punch and kick my way out of this hole. And in short, I am not afraid.

As most of my friends laugh at my crisis, thinking how quaint to be turning 30, how innocent to still have such worries, I have been rolling into a little ball. I have been a hibernating hedgehog, quills out to the world. I have protected myself by hiding, and that's the worst thing I can do, I see.

I'm about to turn 30, and I'm ready for it. I'm about to turn 30, and I'm ready to scratch its eyes out. I'm about to turn 30, and I'm ready to rise from the ashes.

Happy fucking birthday to me. I'm ready.

jen

(circulate this shit at will.)