When I was a kid, I suppose I wasn't different than anyone else in the idea that the day I was born was a big enough deal that it warranted me getting cake and ice cream and presents from everyone I knew at the time.
In that respect, I know there were many of those early years where I had no reason in the world to be anything but excited beyond belief about turning a year older.
That all seemed to change by the time I was a teenager and living on the other side of the country.
I know a lot of the reason for that stems from the growth of my Depression. Living in a part of the world I didn't want to be in, surrounded by classmates who despised me and I despised in turn, and not having much in the way of support, affection, or anything from my family, there were many a birthday when I would lie in bed asking myself the same fundamental question...
What the hell am I still doing here?
By the time I hit adulthood, I was forced to come to terms with a reality that not many people I know have had to deal with, but all the empirical evidence was there to support its accuracy.
That reality, as unpleasant as it may sound, is that I am a mistake of two people who never should've gotten married and never should've had children. And when that realization kicks you in the head, ignoring it or denying it eventually becomes a pointless exercise.
In the now forty-two years of my existence, I've done all I can to live as meaningful a life as I know how. I've done a million things I regret, not nearly as many things that I'm actually proud of, and no matter what anyone says or tries to prove to the contrary, I've always tried to do the right thing, even when it was absolutely not in my best interest to do so.
All the hopes, ambitions and dreams I had in younger days have all been blasted into nothingness by the overwhelming cacophony of everyone who ever thought they had a say over my life all telling me the same thing: No.
All the people I grew to love more than I ever really should've are all gone now, mainly because I cared too much, I tried too hard and I wasn't who they wanted.
The days have become such that getting out of bed every morning is just as difficult as it is to get in and go to sleep. And for the past few weeks, the night's brought a new question to the forefront of my mind that's been harder and harder to ignore.
How many more birthdays do I really want to deal with?
An answer I was willing and able to accept came today while I was at the gym. Eight.
In eight years, I'll be fifty and by that birthday, if my life has not moved in a direction where I'm in a better place and able to feel anything resembling happiness or peace of mind, then I've decided there will not be a fifty-first.
That doesn't mean I'm deciding to lay down and play out the string like my dad did for the last ten years or so of his life. If anything, it means that time is ticking. I am officially on the clock to get things done. It means it's put up or shut up time for me and there are no more outs, excuses or grounds for procrastination.
Eight years to get things the way I want them or that's it. Last one out, hit the lights, because I'll be long gone.
Now, I know you're asking why I would do that. Why would I choose this option when there's so many other things I could possibly do instead?
I've tried most of them. They didn't work and the reason is two-fold. First is that for all my family's monumental dysfunction and its susceptibility to both addiction and mental illness, it also blessed me with a constitution that could result in me living potentially another thirty or forty years.
The idea of living that long and being forced to do so feeling this miserable and alone more days than not isn't a proposition I will accept. I'm sorry, and I would defy anyone to see if they could either, were they unfortunately put in my shoes.
Second, if that's what ends up being the outcome, then I would rather leave with some degree of self-dignity and the knowledge that I knew when to see myself out, instead of becoming an even bigger burden or a bigger example of 'what not to do' than I apparently am already.
So yeah...that's the plan. Forty-two birthdays down. Eight more to go.
A lot can happen between now and then and a lot of it will come down to whether or not I can finally find a way to make my life worth something.
Tally Ho.
