I AM PEARL

We never finished our story, let alone truly started it. There were always walls covered in roses. So beautiful to look at, always calling me to come to the other side. But, all I've done is try to climb and torn my hands.

You yelled at me from the other side and you told me to run. But your voice enchanted me. How could I possibly run away?

But now I stand, looking at the roses, listening to your voice. I want to soak it in - your voice, the roses. Yet I know all I can do is admire from afar. I know I was never supposed to climb that wall and reach the other side.

I was reminded by my doctor that tomorrow is my birthday.

“Chamomile and Peppermint, please,” I shouted to my roommate as I answered the call. “Hello Rachel. I’ve sent the paperwork regarding the anxiety medication that you needed for your work drug test... oh, and happy birthday for tomorrow. I saw it on your file. Have a good night” I wish I was lying about anything in that previous sentence. “Wowza, Rach, fuck,” I actually whispered to myself while wiggling my toes through my emerald throw, cupping the steaming mug of chamomile and peppermint tea freshly placed in my hands. “Thank you,” I silently mouthed. Obviously, I thanked my sweet doctor, then threw my phone a little too aggressively at the pillow and my iPhone plopped off the couch and onto my faux fur rug. I actually forgot that tomorrow was my birthday.

“Hmmmm,” said my internal dialogue. Not feeling sad at all, if anything falling, into a deeper state of contentment and reflection. It’s my birthday tomorrow. So, in true ‘me’ fashion I reflected and came up with some mind-boggling personal stats about my feelings that have been raised by the fact that I actually got reminded that it’s my birthday tomorrow from my doctor. Check em out:

Tomorrow, I will be a quarter of a century old.

It has been 9 years since my Dad has cooked me my special birthday dinner.

This is the first year in 10 years that I won’t drunkenly wait until the clock strikes midnight to receive “woo’s” and smooches from my loved ones.

Yup, just to reiterate the above, this is the first year in 10 years I have been sober. Cool.

It’s been 8 years since I have woken up alone in an empty bed not being flooded by kisses, cuddles or showered with breakfast in bed or morning margaritas.

The first year in 5 years where I haven’t taken my birthday off work, or at least the day after to assist with the hangover.

The first year ever where I actually care very minimally about my birthday. To the point where I forgot about it.

But, in all honesty, I am enjoying the quiet and calm of the moment. A little sad I can’t enjoy my dads cooking but that’s about it. I think it’s because the intensity of the last 10 years has been stupid. And, last year I was a fucking mess. So, anything in comparison to that can be viewed as a cup of steamy chamomile and peppermint tea.

Last was the first year in a long time that I was not with my longish term partner who, as much of a douchebag as he was in the end, truly and utterly spoilt me on birthdays. So in the sheer horror of having no one solely committed to ensuring I was happy for every single second of that day, I made sure that there were contingency plans.

“I need flowers, lots of them, from everyone who loves me,” I raised my voice. I imagined them noting it all down mentally, but I think they had already organised it all so they just nodded and rolled their eyes so I couldn’t see. I took a puff of my cigarette and smooshed it in an overflowing ashtray. “I need cake and pasta,” I exhaled. It needed it to be perfect. But, they knew that.

The day came and I was filled with more love from the people in my life than ever before. I got a continuous stream of flowers delivered to me throughout the day, I got calls from friends in LA and Sydney and Madrid, I got cakes - literally 3 of them! I got a breakfast celebration, a dinner celebration. I got presents. But, after all the anxiety subsided from the immense expectations I put on the day, I was so glad it was over.

And I think that’s why I am half giggling, half shocked at the fact it’s my birthday tomorrow and my doctor reminded me during a phone call about my anxiety meds.

Honestly, I am looking forward to sleeping on my own (I put my neck out last night and cuddling someone would be inconvenient, painful and emotionally, well...nope). I am stoked that I have a small group of friends coming to eat some pasta with me at my favourite restaurant. I am glad I’m not going to be hungover tomorrow because I have an 8am meeting and my chamomile and peppermint tea is delicious rn. And, because I really just don’t care.

There's always that point in your life that you kind of chooses to sell your soul. Be it for that shiny dollar bill, or because it’s easier, or because you kinda have. Where you give in to that little voice in your head or those voices around you to do what makes the most logical sense, even though you know it's gonna hurt. I sold my soul many years ago when my first business went bust. Well, it didn’t have any money coming in in the first place, but call it as you will. From there I realised that being a creative was going to be fucking hard. So, I sold my soul. Swapped my Nike's for some shiny Tony Bianco’s and got my first office job. Now I am a corporate slave (nailing it but beside the point).