Earlier today I caught myself trying to remember who I was ten years ago. I’m pretty sure I brought in my 20th birthday passed out with a solo cup in one hand and a black and mild in the other. I was so lost… and I was so drunk.
For my 30th birthday I’m gifting myself a therapist.
And I’m so serious. I’m prone to anxiety attacks. I’ve literally been having them since I was in high school. But I refuse to enter this decade in a messed-up head space. I was crazy as hell throughout my 20’s; but I also was a total warrior. I had to be. I suffered through a lot and conquered just as much. I overcame so many pivotal battles because my only other option would have been to drown in them.
Trust me when I say that I was my toughest critic. Whatever one may have thought or said about me I promise it had already manifested in my head three times over. I mean don’t get me wrong; there were plenty of shining moments; but internally I rarely acknowledged my strengths and instead always dwelled on what I didn’t do. I made plenty of mistakes and even have a few regrets. I stayed too long in toxic relationships and allowed negative energy to take it’s hold on me.
But now I’ve got my foot on Satan’s neck; and I’m not letting up.
I think it’s silly to assume that when you turn 30 all self-doubt magically disappears. Life doesn’t work like that. The truth is I don’t have anything figured out yet; but there are a few things that I do know. I’m no longer a victim, I won’t allow myself to feel like a burden, whatever is meant to be won’t come forced, and black and milds are disgusting… (wtf, Jo.)
So yeah, for my 30th birthday I’m getting a therapist. And I’m unloading on her ass. Because mental health is lit, fuckery will not be tolerated in this decade, and I’ve got baggage that needs to be unpacked.
Here’s to mom jeans and mimosas. May this be the most beautiful year ever. Happy birthday to me.