I’m fifty! Not fifty cents, or fifty pounds. Fifty years.
My life and my anxiety disorder share space. They played well together through my transition to 50.
I mean, it wasn’t anything.
An idea.
A way for my students to repeatedly say, “You can’t be 50,” and for me to say, “Well, thank you,” because by that they mean, you don’t look particularly tired or wrinkly or broken down.
Last year, I was riding surges of panic at my birthday dinner with family.
We went to the same place we always go for my birthday (and others’). I sat at the table, and thought, oh, I’m losing it.
I’ve had two panic-attack birthdays there. The first time, I didn’t know what was happening, and I couldn’t eat anything. The second time was last year, when I ran to the bathroom, then downed a lemon drop martini and a glass of wine, hoping to short-circuit the panic.
You’re not really supposed to do that, but it worked.
For my 50th, I decided I would give my brain a break and go to a different restaurant.
Driving out there, I thought, I feel okay, I think. I think I feel okay.
I opened the door to the restaurant, and saw my family sitting in a row on a bench: my middle sister, blonde and straight-haired and steady, my mom, radiating desire to celebrate me, my stepmom, smiling cheerfully in the midst of caring for my dad, who was looking dapper and fresh in a sweater vest and blazer. He always looks proud when he’s dressed up. We’re a dress-up family.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude they were all there. People I love, and people who have been with me through a lot of serious shit. And still show up for each other. Always.
The next day I had my birthday open house. Looking back, I’ve had many magnificent birthdays where friends and family gathered at restaurants and bars and dance clubs, and we went hard. There was a lot of anxiety associated with that, though. Where to go, when, who was coming, if everyone would have a good time, who would drive, who would manage my overly celebratory self (that only happened once, okay).
It was nice to have none of that anxiety. I just cleaned up, set out some crackers and cheese and wine and liquor and nonliquor, and people came over and left.
Was twelve hours ambitious? Yes.
Was it successful? Yes.
It was a long necklace of chats. I got to introduce some people I love to other people I love. Some friends who had never been to my house before got the tour. I took a snail’s pace of boozy cider, boozy coffee, and slow glasses of wine, which was respectful of my body and mind. (Not that you always have to go that way, kids. That’s just what I wanted.)
An old friend told us about a family member in the mix of an awful mental illness.
Another friend brought tiny flags from all the countries that visited KC for the World Cup, and I wore one in my hair.
For some reason people re-lit my birthday candles more than once, and once decided to sing “For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow,” as if we were on a pre-“Happy Birthday” going public domain television show.
My niece dressed as me, with a blonde wig.
I’m reminded now of something I heard years ago: always treasure a quiet evening at home.
A Holocaust survivor told us that a lecture once. Never take it for granted.
People drew pictures, and some of them were too well done because they are trained artists.
I left out and handed out photo albums so we could marvel at how much younger people looked when they were younger.
Then around 1:30 in the morning, I went to sleep.
Quieter was good. Quieter was fine. Quieter was lovely.
Mardi Gras season is coming. I’ll get loud again.
I was deeply reassured that my panic disorder is tamped down for now. Yes, I’ll still take my meds (you best believe), but a birthday without overwhelming panic bodes well for the upcoming holidays and their various celebrations. It feels like a relapse that doesn’t have much to do with anything I changed, and more to do with how chronic illnesses sometimes zoom in, throw shit around, and then retreat.
Or it’s about how my brain moved into being 50 and settled there.
Who knows.
This is all to say, thank you for birthday wishes and visits, and I’m glad to have sailed through that particular Scylla and Charybdis, and be in easier waters.
