Being 30

Three is a lucky number. Thirty is ten threes. Ten threes may not be as lucky as nine threes or even six or three threes, but still. It’s lucky.

I used to dread turning 30, but then I turned 27. 28. 29. Time creeps forward, whether we’re paying attention or not. So I choose to embrace this year of being ten threes, and want to spend it with purpose.

No wrinkles appeared around my eyes when I woke up. No lightning bolt of wisdom struck me. My clothes did not transform into hooded cloaks in the night (though it’d be cool if they did).

Thirty happened the way every other birthday happens: Slowly, over the course of the year, the months, the weeks, the days. It happened over the course of deaths and loss, over the course of illness and setbacks, over the course of new friends and goals met, over the course of endings and beginnings.

And, thankfully, it happened with many of my dearest friends and family—some of whom drove great distances to see me–doing things I love: book shopping, spending a day at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, getting the breakfast buffet at Happy Days and having my annual allotment of creamed chipped beef.

I don’t know what this year will bring, though the cards suggest some interesting things. All I can do is write every day I’m able, send my work into the world, take care of myself as best I can, and continue loving the people (and dogs) I love.

Here’s to 30, and all the things it might bring.

 

 

hold on/let go

I have tried writing about it, and I have tried not writing about it. I have tried writing about other things—books I have read, music I have been listening to, documentaries I’ve watched—but these feel insubstantial and out of reach.

The only story I can hold onto right now is the one I’m living, and it’s the one I’d most like to let go of.

But the weight of it presses down on my shoulders, closes my throat, ruins my dreams. I alternate between sleeping all afternoon and through the night, and lying awake in bed, imagining the gore from thirteen knife wounds, the blood that must have drenched the furniture and floors. The horror on her face when she found you.

And, of course, I lie awake, too, with the memories from years ago, when we would kiss, and kiss, and kiss, our lips melting into each other, and then the cruelty, the derision, the judgment.

The photos I have of you, of us, show that we are happy, and smiling; we are young and beautiful. Beauty can be as cruel as the knife, and sometimes even crueler.

Someday, when the memory blurs and the emotions dull with time, maybe then, I can give shape to this shapeless thing, this wound in my heart.

 

Miss Migraine takes a year-end break

I’m going to give myself a blogging vacation for the rest of the year. On the 25th I leave for Arkansas for a week to visit my best friend, and I want to concentrate on hanging out and doing fun things away from the computer screen. I’ll be back in 2015 with migraine-related resolutions, musings on disability, and perhaps stories of the adventures I’ll have in Arkansas.

Happy holidays, everyone!