On Turning 35
There’s something about birthdays that make people intraspective. To be honest, I would have completely forgotten my birthday this year if someone else hadn’t reminded me a few weeks ago.
O.K. That’s not completely true. My parents three cards and my mother’s call to let me know that UPS had my packages would have been a tip-off that I was turning another year older, but I would have forgotten it was one of those “milestone” birthdays had someone else not pointed it out and I guess a milestone birthday deserves some intraspection and attention.
Most of the time I have to think when someone asks me how old I am and then I’m kind of surprised at the answer. For some reason, after thirty, I kind of stopped keeping a close count like maybe that big surprise party those dysfunctional friends threw signified an end of an era and thus the end of important age counting as I knew it. After all, there’s a big difference between four and four and a half but who cares if you’re 33 or 34 years old? Well, maybe the health insurance company and their mysterious formulas, but other than that, who cares?
The truth is that I’m not one of those big birthday partiers who spends a big night on the town — I’m sure that comes as a big surprise to anyone who’s read anything I’ve written. 
Oh, I was when I was little. I’ve seen the pictures. Little girls and boys in cute little clothes with theme hats and party favors running and playing with balloons in a lush green backyard — yes, I have played outside before. I think there might have been a pinata and pin-the-tale-on-the-donkey too. God, I was a cute little kid.
Everyone at my fifth birthday came down with the chicken pox, by the way. I have a very vivid memory of my mother telling another little girl’s mother that she was sure the other little girl wasn’t contagious and to send her on over.
Oh, sure, there were more parties, but I do kind of think that sets the scene for a lifetime pattern.
Anyway, back to turning 35…
When I was twelve, I thought that by thirty-five, I’d be married, probably to Simon leBon or John Taylor with a lot of kids and we’d be living in England with the nanny and the kids and I’d be a well-known author and our lives would be perfect. I couldn’t really see beyond that. Thirty-five was pretty old to me then. I mean God! Thirty-five was old!
When I was eighteen, I was hoping that I’d meet the man of my dreams in college and we’d get married after college and have kids around the time we were thirty. I never even thought about after that. There was nothing beyond thirty. It didn’t matter because we’d have our perfect lives by then and that was all that mattered.
By my mid-twenties, my depression was in full swing and my cousin had committed suicide, something that has haunted me off and on over the years. To this day, I wish I understood what was going on in his mind. Perhaps if I did, perhaps I could understand myself, help myself, save myself. Though in many ways, his suicide has saved me all these years, because I’ve already seen what it would do to the family and I won’t do it to them again.
In my late twenties, I had a very optimistic breakthrough where I actually thought I might get married but in the end, I knew it wasn’t right for me. It’s worked out well for him as he has a very lovely wife now. But for that brief time I had some hope of a future but then reality set in and I realized what life would be like day in and day out for both of us. It’s hard enough for a depressive to live with herself everyday; it’s certainly not fair for someone else to have to do that as well. (And in the end I also realized that I loved him but I wasn’t “in love with him” whatever the hell that means. By the way, I still love him. He’s my frist and only real love.)
That’s about when I realized that I could barely take care of my own self let alone some other dependent small person. The cats at least stand a chance at fending for themselves, but a small person could easily come to great harm if left to my care for longer than a few hours. I mean, let’s face it — children terrify me and they require clean, safe living areas and someone who remembers to go to the grocery store and doesn’t put it off just one more day because a tablespoon of peanut butter is just as viable an option for dinner.
It’s also about that time that I began to wonder if I would make it past 35. I had health issues among other things and quite frankly I just have never pictured my life really beyond 35. Trips to the ER, countless visits to Radiology, a long list of doctor — it went on and on. I just felt that I was one of those doomed to die young types. I’m not sure why I picked the number “35,” but 35 was the deadline. I was going to have a heart-attack or something by the time I was 35. Something was going to happen.
Imagine my surprise when it was pointed out a few weeks ago that I was turning this milestone 35. I’d made it miraculously.
And to be honest, I don’t really know what to do with myself as this milestone passes because I guess I’m a little surprised to be here.
I know that I never expected to be this person I am today — single, childless, independent, opinionated, liberal, openminded, geeky, quirky,depressive, cat-loving, political talking, country-music listening, computer programing, slobby, anxiety-ridden, shut-in. I certainly never thought I would have been one to pack up my life and move 1700 miles from everything and everyone I knew to start over. I wonder who I might have been had things been different, though I don’t know what might have been different or what I would have changed — though I think I might have liked to have skipped the chicken pox and I think I would have liked to have had better luck with love early on but o.k., things happen for a reason, right?
So, I’ve been thinking that with this looming milestone, there are some things that maybe I’d like to work on for the next milestone birthday. That gives me, what? Five years?
Is five years enough time to train the cats to clean their own litter pans and fetch me sodas from the fridge?
tags: Me, birthday, suicide, depression
You may also enjoy...
2 comments
Leave a comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.
on February 15, 2007 at 7:49 pm
LindaB said:
I’m turning 35 next week. This fact sort of surprised me - it hit me when my friend told me she wanted to celebrate with a girls’ night out. It hit me hard and I cried. I completely relate to how you thought of what 35 would be. I thought I would be married with kids. I always thought I had time. I know I still have time - just not for the things I thought my life would be. Thanks for writing about turning 35. It’s nice to know someone else can relate.
on June 14, 2007 at 8:27 am
lazuras said:
a friend of mine just turned 35 today. so i had a llok on the net about it. found your comments. ive got a few weeks to go before i turn 33, im still recovering that i made 30! lol. i like wot you wrote, and can relate totally (thou im not quite35 yet). good luck with everything, off to feed my cat now