I have thirty days until I am thirty. The big 3-0 is coming up and I’d be lying if I omitted the fact that I have that quintessential fear of a number. It’s not for the reason that most other people fear thirty. I don’t feel old. In my head, I’m a ripe old 22 year old who has had an extra eight years to get their life together, have kids, have jobs, quit jobs, get houses and all that jazz.
No, in fact I
want need to change my life style.
Being in a first world country and all that, I do say that I haven’t had a great year. I’ve spent a lot of it really, really depressed. Like a lot, a lot. I don’t want to talk about it, though, because I know A) that’s triggering and B) I have no idea who is reading this and I know it’d hurt people in my life to know how I was feeling during the past 360-odd days and saying nothing about it to anyone. Because I’m a martyr. I’m not serious about that last little bit, I don’t feel like a martyr: honestly I just feel really tired.
I spent most of 2014 waiting to feel better. A little here and there, trying to feel better while staying out of the arena of dopamine-uptake-receptor-chemical-western medicine. Because I didn’t try very hard, very little seemed to make a difference in my life. Which is no one’s fault, but my own. I’m don’t blame anyone for that.
This year, after feeling that particular brand of clutch-in-the-chest that accompanies being upset about things, I decided that I am giving myself a particular gift this year. A particularly weird gift: to actually be better. I am spending my thirtieth year getting better for not only my children, but myself. No longer a slave to my muddied up chakras, and ignoring the brightness in my days.
Basically it’s like one of those completely cliché things where a woman has a quarter life crisis in a movie, gets a hair cut, quits her high-paying job to become a florist (her true passion!), finds that the sort of weird guy at Starbucks is actually super nice and funny and sweet, then moves out to the country.
Except without the whole cliché part. I don’t feel unfulfilled in my life, it’s just that something’s not quite right with myself as a person and that needs to be repaired. Clearly, eleven years of waiting for something to make me feel better hasn’t been working, so I just need to be way more active about it.
See, I told you this was weird. I feel weird, then.
I’ve spent a lot of time researching and reading and after making a couple of failed attempts, I’m actually going to stick with it this time. It’s mostly diet related because, hello, easier is easier, isn’t it? That is no excuse, in my book. I don’t let that fly with other people, I’m not sure where I got the idea that this was good for me.
That last bit doesn’t make a lot of sense, I realize that. What I’m trying to get at is I made stabs at being vegetarian/vegan over the summer and when I actually made the effort, I felt eleventy-million times better, but I wouldn’t stick with it. The feeling better didn’t seem to remind me. Maybe because I didn’t feel terrible, exactly, or that it was so easy to slip back into old habits (e.g. hot dogs). I wouldn’t exercise regularly, either, which made a difference.
I don’t know why I feel the need to write all of this out here. It’s not like I’m interested in people keeping me accountable, or having anyone check up on me or anything. I’m just throwing it out there, I guess.
To embracing my inner hippie, Happy birthday to me.
Also, there are 87 days until Christmas.