Eve of Birth

Someone near to me gave me the idea that our birthdays are our personal holidays. I agree. How do we celebrate holidays? Food, drink, fun. Gifts, sometimes. Traditions. Since this marker of time is my annual renewal, I’ll treat it as I would approaching new year’s and make some resolutions. To write. To create. To share. At last.

My therapist would be proud. I’d make an A. Sometimes I joke about “getting graded” and how I “failed at therapy” today. More on that later. Probs not healthy, right? 

Someone else (or multiple people, surely), not near to me, came up with the idea of the 27 Club. Musicians and celebrities who passed at the age of 27 in the late 60’s and early 70’s are in this tragic club: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison… That’s where it started (Idk, fact-check me and Wikipedia), and oddly enough, in recent decades, other artists and actors and celebrities have passed at this age too: Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Heath Ledger. What’s the connection? Fame? Drugs? The coincidence of age? I don’t have the answer, but as I reach 27 (tomorrow) I’ve been thinking about what this means for me, since we’re all universally connected after all. Or maybe I should focus my energy on Saturn’s Return.

I think that something within me that has needed to die, that hasn’t served me (ever) will pass into the unknown and leave me. I will be happy about it. I will be glad. I will be lighter. I will be free. I’m declaring it now, so 2020, goddamnit, don’t disappoint me.

I’m exploring this with the The Wild Unkown Archetypes Deck and Guidebook, created by Kim Krans. I’m slowly leading myself through The Body Keeps The Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk. I’m dragging my feet on Forgiving the Devil by Terry D. Hargrave. I’m committing to this journey with Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. I’m finding relatability and feeling less alone with Difficult Women by Roxane Gay. I’m consciously taking stock of what I consume and cook with Salt, Fat, Acid Heat by Samin Nosrat, Controlling Your Drinking by Drs. William R. Miller and Ricardo F. Munoz, and Hawker Fare by Chef James Syhabout. Gotta nurture that body and mind. Honestly, I’ve given up on The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, so if you would like a copy, you can have it. If I were to designate these readings as a workshop or course, I might call it something like: Not Certain But Pretty Sure, For Adults. Wanna join me? Let’s have a book club. I have to thank my therapist for many of these recommendations. #mentalhealth #normalizecounseling

I’m holding myself accountable by writing this, and giving it to anyone reading.

In my 27 years, I’ve been

  • An infant and can’t remember much of anything but absorbed some developmental things that I’m sure affect me to this day
  • A toddler who saw some SHIT, man, that no child or anyone should ever have to see
  • A young girl who was weird and academically brilliant (that’s what I was told, my teachers’ words, not mine, I’m not that full of myself, thanks) but so awkward, sad, anxious, trapped, uncertain, hopeless, etc., etc.
    • MAN, I LOVE school. I miss being a student.
  • A teen/young adult – not sure how even to describe this, still kind of embarrassed about who I was, hah. Haha. Oof.
  • An adult finally coming to terms with the trauma of being the child of refugees and realizing that you can’t hide from your past and that ghosts can be living people and memories can be locked in by language and who occasionally allows a run-on sentence for the sake of whatever poetry is even though she teaches writing and composition

Today, I’m doing my best to sort this all out.


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