#roadofdestiny

I am not the kind of person who feels proud. I am the kind of person that says, “Okay, sure, I did some stuff, but it wasn’t nearly good enough and I am so far from where I’d like to be.” I am the kind of person who is always searching for perfection that does not exist. 

My 32nd birthday is in 6 days. I have been actively avoiding thinking about it because I don’t want to look at what a failure I am. I don’t want to think about how I’ve been searching for a job for almost exactly 1 year with no luck. I don’t want to think about how I was essentially forced to work at a restaurant again months after I thought I quit my last restaurant job ever. I don’t want to think about all of the interviews I’ve had that didn’t pan out.

This morning, I thought about my birthday and reflected on the last year of my life, as we are wont to do when milestones rear their ugly heads whether we want them to or not. I was surprised to realize that as shitty and depressing as this year has been, I’ve actually accomplished quite a bit. Of course it doesn’t look the way I want it to, but does it ever?

I have produced a new radio show from the ground up and it’s coming up on the one year anniversary. I recorded, edited, and built a website for my very own podcast. I got that podcast distributed on Google Play and Stitcher (Apple rejected my many attempts, for which I’m still incredibly resentful). I worked on the production team for several films and commercials, which I think is pretty bad ass. I completed an internship for a US senator during one of the most exciting times to be in politics in recent history. I took care of my dad after he had heart surgery. I took care of my boyfriend after he had back surgery. I stayed sober. 

So, yeah. My life doesn’t look like I thought it would by 32. But, when I was 27, I was drinking my face off, had no friends, worked at a pizza place, took several trips to the hospital as a result of my drinking, and wanted to die. When I was 27, I didn’t think my life would ever look any different. I had this naive hope that somehow I would wake up one morning and some miraculous change would have taken place in my sleep. I imagined I would wake up without the desire to drink. That I would get my shit together, finish my degree, and...then what? I couldn’t wake up without a hangover. I hadn’t written anything creative since high school. I lost my drive, my hobbies, my friends, jobs, houses. The reality of my life, which I refused to acknowledge, was pretty fucking bleak.