I Was Born at 41 Years of Age
For most of my life, I wasn’t living. I was surviving.
I always knew I was part of this life, but I didn’t feel alive. I just existed. All the things that brought happiness quickly disappeared, but the dread of sadness lurked around me like a swamp surrounding a tree. Questions about God arose every day, as I questioned whether all of this was part of the grand scheme. I knew I wasn’t living. I was just surviving, like quicksand that pulled me under as I gasped for air. The people who were put on this earth to love me didn’t. My father ran away, and I was left with a mother who didn’t know any better as my map. Heartbreak after heartbreak, betrayal after betrayal, abandonment after abandonment, and, of course, trauma after trauma. After a while, I became familiar with the numbness and knew I could linger amongst them without a pulse, but they wouldn’t notice. Forgiveness seemed impossible, regret felt desirable, and fight or flight felt like my daily endeavor.
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But that wasn’t the worst of it all. The worst was knowing that there was light under the shadows and dust. A bright ray of light was constantly looking for a peephole within me every day, trying to breathe as well. And then it happened. After years of sorrow, I felt it. I felt how the darkness had consumed me when I started sympathizing with men who gave up after losing their purpose. That’s when I knew that the pain inflicted in that moment was different. It took me by surprise with the force of a thousand waves, endless and relentless. I had to fight back. My biology consisted of a rush of blood that created a pattern of steel within my thoughts, a survival mechanism of sorts. I had felt invincible for years. Until that very moment.
I remember the day I turned 41, and I swear to you that it was the first time I turned to stoic thoughts about life. I know… you may think that I had reached maturity, but believe me when I tell you that when you are raised with no father and a dysfunctional family, you are forced to ripen before your time. No. I’m telling you, this time was different. I could make time stop whenever I wanted to analyze or reorganize my thoughts and reactions. I wasn’t completely in control before, and now I struggle to control this new light inside of me that keeps me warm, like a soft fire during a snowstorm. All of that suffering was supposed to turn me into someone the little kid in me would never have wanted me to become. In that moment, I didn’t care about anything but myself. I wanted to make that little boy proud.
Now, the people who were supposed to love me fear the regret of not appreciating life with those who could’ve loved them back. Now they are faced with the inevitable breath of their own demise. Now I sympathize with them, and not the men who let go. Fools are the ones who thought they had more time; weak are the ones who didn’t know that time was on their side. But that wasn’t my life anymore, and now I feel like it is finally time to live. I went from drying out my tears to giving color to a dry heart. And don’t get me wrong, I still see the beauty that a lifetime has to offer. Now it all rests on identifying whether the time I have left is enough to start living.
