Thirty

I turn thirty today and I’m fine with it.

Over the past year, society (and my family) have been telling me this is something I should either worry about or dread. I do neither. In fact, I’m looking forward to turning thirty, I like round numbers and I like the number three. There’s a lot of satisfaction in it.

I’ve never really understood this preoccupation with age, or really had one myself. Even when I was too young to do things, legally, like smoke, drink and go to certified 15 films I wasn’t really in any hurry to get to those points. Mostly because I could do those things anyway, at any point in my life. My dad was offering me alcohol when I was fifteen or sixteen, I have never had any desire to smoke, and if you could get into a twelve/fifteen/eighteen film then you could see one. Makes it sound like I was running around the streets like a wild child, but I think again, like the smoking, there was a complete lack of desire to go round drinking Diamond White on the park at fourteen.

And again, I have no desire what so everĀ  to be seventeen again. Or relive my school years. Or my teenage years. Or any of the years from twenty-five down. I wasn’t born forty, and believe me, I’m not mature by any sense of the word; I just don’t care for that sort of lifestyle. And school was awful. All of it. I mean there was some good bits, but mostly I hated school.

I did, once, get drunk a lot, but all that was really about was about my deteriorating mental health problems. I went to university, was a long way from whatever was keeping me stable, or together, and fell apart. Spectacularly. And then I stopped drinking for the most part and started cutting.

This isn’t about that though, this is about turning thirty.

I want to be thirty.

I’m not great at being a grown-up, and I feel like I don’t get taken seriously a whole lot. It’s not an easy feeling to describe, but it’s how I feel about a lot of the people around me. I suspect it’s partly just paranoia, some bits of my BPD not dealt with by medication or therapy, but still, turning thirty totally makes me a grown-up right that should be taken seriously in everything I do.

Except maybe when I to the catloaf dance….

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