35 Birthdays

 

First of all, I want to thank everyone who has been reading my blog posts! While I primarily write for myself. I do hope that my blog posts are helping people understand that it is normal to be neurodivergent. Humans are social creatures, yet we also feel such complex emotions. It's hard not to feel overwhelmed or feel like we're alone. 

I will try to keep this post short, since all my posts have been 5+ pages long. My 35th birthday is coming up on Thursday.

When I was a child I loved celebrating my birthday because I knew that it would be special. My Mom would wake me up playing the "Mananitas" at 6am. I would get ready for school. The day before I picked out the perfect outfit that I felt represented who I was at the time. My Mom would make me a special breakfast and then I would bring some birthday goodies for my classmates.

                              My first birthday. 

This is the version of  "Las Mananitas" my Mom would play for us. 

I loved my birthdays as a kid. As I got older, I stopped caring about my birthdays. I do not know if it was because my Mom stopped being herself, or because I was becoming clinically depressed. Perhaps, my little heart couldn't handle my Mom's rejection towards me when I was 12. But, ever since my golden birthday I stopped caring about birthdays. I actually grew to dread my birthday. It was just a sign that I was aging, but I had nothing good to celebrate. At the time, I was mad at my Mother. I wanted the Mother I had when I was a kid, toddler, and baby back. I did not understand why my Mom was extremely moody, why every time I gently asked for something she would explode and call me names. I did not understand why the only parent who loved me had to constantly work. I didn't want to come home just to hear my Mom and brother fight. I did not want anyone to wish me a "Happy Birthday" because in my opinion what was so good about my birth. Especially, since my Mother never let me forget that I "ruined" her life and she was stuck with me and my siblings.

1st grade maybe?? 

My friends at school would try to cheer me up by buying me balloons, birthday cards, and presents. The only thing I wanted for my birthday was to have my Mother love me again. Every birthday I had until I was 30 was the same. I woke up, nothing good in my opinion happened. I thought that if I planned birthday parties that I would be happy. But it was only temporary. 

My middle school ID. 

To be honest, I never thought I would make it this far. Everyone I knew, knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. They or their parents planned their whole lives out in college. But, my parents only had money to take care of us and our house. I knew it was up to me, if I wanted to attend college. My Mom wanted me to be a nurse or a doctor. She wanted me to have a career that would make me a lot of money so I would be financially stable. I had no clue what I wanted my career to be. I kept switching careers. I wanted to be an English teacher, an actress, an author, and lastly a journalist for Time or National Geographic. All careers that would never pay me enough. I have always been a creative kid and teenager. I knew no matter what I picked I would disappoint my Mother yet again. Luckily, I was used to disappointing my Mother. But it still didn't make me feel better about myself. 

My sophomore year of high school was the worst year that I have been alive so far. I was self-harming myself. I was suicidal. I had no plans to live. I wanted to die. I went through life just going through the motions. Again, I don't want to trigger anyone so I won't be descriptive. From the age of 16 to 30 I would go back and forth from being depressed to suicidal. I tried eight times throughout my life to end it. I was never successful thankfully. I see this as a gift now. But at the time, I didn't care how I went, I did not want to be here. Through these exercises in futility, I learned that perhaps I was meant to be on this earth. Or perhaps my ancestors were watching over me. 

There is no way that a person who tried to kill herself eight times should be alive. My suicidal tenancies also showed me that while I had a weak immune system, the rest of my body was strong. When I was in high school my skatepark friends found a bottle of Everclear. I tried to drink it all. It was 75 percent alcohol. The only thing that happened to me is that I got really sleepy. That's it. I did not puke. I did not pass out. I did not do anything stupid. Another time, I took a whole bottle of pills. I woke up the next day. I would walk into traffic, hoping I would get hit. When that didn't work I started to date violent people hoping they would kill me. All that happened is that I developed an intolerance for assholes. I went towards more and more horrible ways, still surviving them. I learned that I have a high alcohol tolerance, my liver is superb, and I am too dominant. If a partner would try to hit me I would dodge or hit them back. Most of the time, I would have to stop myself from hurting that person. Except for my actual psychopath ex that I dated before Ryan who taught me that being alone is better than getting abused.  I was sick of getting myself into these situations. 

I think this photo is from Senior Year of High School or beginning of college. 

That is when I met Ryan. Ryan was the only person in my life who made me want to be a better person. But even so, we both were mentally ill people in a relationship. So we did what mentally ill people who grew up in the Midwest do, become functioning alcoholics. From age 25 to 29. My life was an alcoholic blur. I barely remember any of things I did or said, but I guarantee it wasn't good. I know for a fact that I was a trash person. If I did not have Ryan, my pets, and selective friends I know I would have died in IL. Either from being stalked or from my liver giving out. I would have died like L.G. from Entombed. I knew it was a matter of life or death for me to leave Illinois. So I saved up. I told Ryan that I had to leave. He could come with me or he could stay. I'm glad he chose to come with me. I did not want to break up with him after eight years of being together. But, I could not stay in Illinois for one more day.  Everywhere I went, there were too many bad memories for me. 

Here's a photo of me graduating from NIU with Ryan and my sister. 

I could mope and think about all the wasted years and potential. Or I could actually do something about my circumstances. I left a place that never accommodated or understood me. I found a place that works for me. I am finally at peace and happy with my life. You have to do what is best for you in the end. No matter how scary it is.

It took me until I was 30-years-old to love life again. That's what being mentally ill does, it robs you of hope and a future. Because of my depression I never planned anything in life. So now, I'm trying to fix my life. Most people my age have senior or advanced positions in their careers. Most people my age own property or have children. I do not have those things because again I never thought I would live to 30. 

I used to hate celebrating my birthday like I said above. Now I celebrate my birthday because it means I won and my depression didn't. I am still alive. I did not believe the lies my brain constantly repeated to me. I was brave and asked for help. I am no longer a statistic. I am a person. I have goals. I have a fiancé. I have three cats and a dog who needs me. Birthdays are to be celebrated. It means I am victorious. I am loved. 

This is me finally happy. Yes, I don't smile. I would rather just be true to myself. I'm just a Finn in a Mexican's body.