And that, folks, is called a meltdown.
A crying jag (OK, several) at work despite my friends buying me lunch, another friend delivering the most adorable cake-pop basket and stargazers from my husband. Despite the fact that I’m alive, I can put food on the table and gas in my car. That I have dear friends who show their compassion on a daily basis. That I have a family who will see me through thick and thin. That I live in this place in this epoch.
That I’ve been in this world for 33 years now and still have so much to see, learn and do.
I’m no good at birthdays. Maybe because none will ever stack up to my 6th, the Showbiz Pizza extravaganza experience. Now that was a good birthday.
No, that’s not really it.
I tend to time my self-assessments around my birthday. See how much I’ve accomplished in the past 12 months and whether it was a good year.
It wasn’t. Life fail.
I didn’t make any great strides at work. I didn’t reach any personal goals. I didn’t learn to play the banjo or to speak Japanese or have a baby. I didn’t read as much as I wanted to, or create nearly as much as I wanted to. I didn’t explore. I didn’t dance.
All I can say about this year is that I survived it. I don’t quite like that yardstick, but it’s the only applicable one.
And that makes me sad.
It seems all too easy, a copout, to say I got waylaid by multiple sclerosis.
Most days I’m better than that.
But apparently not yesterday.