On Turning 40, When You're Not Supposed To Be Here

Birthday are typically a time of celebration. Mine are more a moment of reflection. I'm not supposed to be here. I should've drawn in my last breath years ago. Milestones. A new year. A goal surpassed and a new one formed.

I found alcohol and drugs in my teens. They made me feel numb when all else was chaotic. They were my razor when I couldn't quite pull the metaphorical trigger. I had and still have a death wish, I won't deny it and will freely admit it. Death doesn't scare me and that may the most terrifying thing because we're supposed to have a healthy fear of being no more. I want to die. Not every day, but there are moments I just sit and wonder would the world be better without me in it.


Before y'all freak out, this isn't a suicide note or a cry for help. This is just me. What goes on in my head on a daily basis. The hallucinations of  self-harm. A thirst for one more drink or line. It'll never go away and I've accepted the fact that I will live and die as an alcoholic and addict, my self-destruction knows no limits. Even as I remain clean and sober, I'm not delusional enough to believe that I won't fall off the wagon. As they say, it is what it is.

Bipolar has taken a lot of my control. I'm ruled by a badly wired brain. I live in a nearly constant rage. And before y'all start giving advice keep it to yourselves. We're individuals, what works for one won't work for another, and I don't need to be told I should do this or do that. I've done just about everything from exercise to meditation. I can pretend with the best of them.

Us with mental illness or addiction are raw, exposed nerves where simply living is like salt in an open and festering wound. Pain beyond comprehension. I suffer with touch aversion. I'm told that contact is important. Touch is proven to reduce stress, depression, and all that other shit, but for me the feel of my clothes, another's skin and sometimes my own is more than I can take. My limits are hard set and I understand them.

Do I wish I was different?

No. We can't turn back time to the womb and rewire ourselves to be so-called normal. Or relive the moment that somehow broke us. I can't change years of domestic abuse. I can't rewind the motions of putting the rim of a glass to my lips. I can't put the straw or dollar bill down as in slow motion the powder reappears in clean, neat lines. I am what I am.

My salvation comes in the form of books. Words created from a misfiring brain. Of people just as broken as I am. Not everyone will like my stories. Not everyone will see the beauty in the pain. Just like as a person I'm not for everyone neither are the stories I create and share. I'm not one of those people who will receive the happily ever after that isn't meant for me. Being alone isn't a hardship or a curse, it's just how I remain sane.

Do I wish for more in the coming year?

No. I'm where I need to be.

My existence isn't guaranteed. My sobriety isn't guaranteed. My needs are simple. Words that will always flow and allow me to create places where people like me flourish and find a modicum of happiness. A place of belonging where they don't need to pretend to be something their not. Where they aren't judged on the fact they don't look or act like everyone else.

Here's to hoping 41 finds me still existing and hanging on.