She of Three

Contemplating My Worth On My Birthday

Birthdays, on the whole, have always been melancholy occasions for me. I’m not sure why that is. Perhaps it’s that I allow my penchant for wistfulness to get the best of me. Another year coming to a close unfailingly gets me thinking.

About things.

Things that creep into my head like earworms that keep me awake and wondering. About life and whether I’m making the best of it. About who I am. Where I am. What I’ve done. Or, the ever more poignant and badgering, what I haven’t done.

Chances not taken. Ideas not nurtured. Money not spent. Friendships not made. Feelings not reciprocated. Boys not kissed. Vacations not planned. Calories not consumed. Places not seen. Connections missed.

Four-Letter Words

Why, you might be wondering? Because of a little four-letter word that starts with “f.” It’s not what you’re thinking, although it has certainly fucked me over.

Fear.

Fear of consequences. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of rejection. Fear of intimacy. Fear of judgment. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of going broke. Fear of gaining weight. Fear of commitment. Fear of abandonment. Fear of the unknown.

Fear of... life?

Sleepwalking Through Life

I wasn’t always this way. Once, I was fearless. I had big dreams and intended to chase them. I was told I would be something special, someone special, and I believed it.

I overcame an unpleasant childhood, discarded the shell of a frightened and skittish little girl to emerge into a confident, intelligent, and tough broad. On the surface, my skin appears thick, but my scars are still pink.

My mother was my best friend and hero. And as is the case with idols, I wanted to be exactly like her. I thought she was beautiful and the coolest, strongest, most fearlessly badass bitch on earth. But I also wanted to be nothing like her. She wasn’t perfect, but I’ve learned, with time, to accept that she was enough. That the mistakes she suffered, the poor choices she made, the situations to which she exposed my brothers and me, the responsibilities and confidences with which she burdened us, were circumstantial, not intentional. My ambition was an insurance policy that I would be more than she was.

I was poised to take the world by storm.

I remember that girl, but I no longer recognize her.

Somewhere along the way, she started to sleepwalk through life. Her timidity runs hot. The fear that frightens her the most, among all others? Mediocrity. Yet she hasn’t done much to stave it off. And these days, she’s wondering whether it’s too late to change, to make the big impact she thought she would. Or an impact, period.

She’s scrambling to make up for lost time. Mourning the loss of a youth she didn't have.

I’m sad for her.

Listen to Your Mother

My mother taught me never to settle. She reiterated it vehemently throughout my adolescence, and I knew it was not a suggestion but rather a warning brought on by her own failures and regrets. I have tried to heed her words.

I have a good life, the centerpiece of which is a wonderful, tight-knit family. A loving and supportive partner who worships me and puts up with the shit involved with letting me be me. An impenetrable bond with my brothers, fueled by the circumstances, some sublime, others unenviable, that we survived together that have rendered us unbreakable. Our relationship is among my proudest accomplishments.

A smart and beautiful niece who is my soulmate and who, along with her brother, my nephew, keep me smiling and laughing. A stunning home that is an outlet for my creativity.

I am fortunate and grateful. I have more than my mother ever had. Yet, still, I struggle with the question of whether this life, my small life, is enough.

I am not unhappy but sometimes, I’m discontent.

Opportunities Missed

My mother was sad throughout her unfinished life. I didn’t want to grow up to be like her.

She carried a verse from a poem in her wallet called “Opportunities Missed” about a man who let life slip.

There was a very cautious man, who never laughed or cried.
He never risked, he never lost, he never won nor tried.
And when he one day passed away, his insurance was denied.
For since he never really lived, they claimed he never died. (Anonymous)

I think about that poem a lot. I found it while going through my mother’s things after she died. It reminds me of her in a sad way, its words a reflection of her own life. She understood the lesson it imparted – the fear of life wasted shook her to her very core – but setting change into motion, discarding old habits, wasn’t always easy.

We’re on this earth to live, but living, truly living, eludes so many.

Finding Encouragement

The poem is mine now. I read it when I need the same encouragement to appreciate life that my mother continuously required but so frequently dismissed. I often worry that I, too, have let life slip. I’ve lived for others, put the needs of my family first, my mother and brothers and grandmother, all of whom I cared for in some capacity starting when I was very young. I don’t resent them for it, but I can’t help but think about how much of myself I lost, the time I’ll never get back.

My life often felt like it was in limbo. A cube of apple suspended in cherry-flavored gelatin. I usually felt stuck and unable to propel myself to the surface. I wish I had realized earlier that life doesn’t look back, that second chances are rare. That opportunities must be seized when they present themselves, that fear is not an excuse, that our time is limited. That ignoring these tenets can lead to corrosive regret.

Like her long, lean legs and high cheekbones, the question of whether I’ve truly lived and the depression that inevitably follows has been passed down from Kathi to me. Perhaps I’m just at an age where one analyzes the facets of her life and hopes to find meaning. There’s a phrase for it, but I refuse to use it here, not out of denial, but because I like to think that I’m complete and not “mid” anything.

But I can’t deny that certain existential questions haven’t been eating away at me lately like a fruit fly on a ripe banana. Am I living? Am I brave? Have I taken enough or any chances? Am I the person I envisioned I’d become? Does my passion guide me?

And above all else, would my mother be proud of me?