Birthdays Are Overrated and Other Truths of Life as We Know It

I woke up this morning super-early, realized it was my birthday, and immediately burst into tears.  Even though I've been rocking this mood disorder for over thirty years, I'm always surprised by the strength and swiftness of my emotions.  "That escalated quickly," I think.  "What the hell was that all about?"  Well, this morning it's about my birthday.   It's always a day where I'm force to reflect on where I am, how I got here, and (cringes, braces self) where I'm headed.  

And the feels descend.   First comes Anxiety, always the front runner, with Panic moving up on the rail.  Here we go.  Next up, Sadness, digging in against Despair.  This is the year that I will finally be single.  (Oh, did I not mention he finally signed the papers?  I would make an event out of it but I'm STILL NOT DIVORCED because it's still not official till the Judge stamps the front page of the inch-thick Petition, soon to be a major motion picture).  

I closed the door on a major section of my life this past year, really the only one of any significance.  SO FAR.  I mean, right?  I have to keep thinking that the best is yet to come, although the Hallmark Hall of Fame called and they want their cheesy cliche back.  But I HAVE to keep thinking that, or else, you know, visions of cliff-driving and vein-opening and revolver-fellating and all that nasty shit comes to call.  

So here comes a day of tearbursts, reading the fond wishes of my Facebook family, hearing from people I don't know in real life but who know and understand and "get" me better than most people I do, feeling valued, smart, kind, important.  Good shit, mang.   Cue Sally Field.  Again.  

Thank you.  Seriously.  You have no idea.  

Hold up.  Yeah.  You do.