As of yesterday, I am officially 36 years old. Birthdays are hard for me at this point. I know a lot of people will see that and be like “no shit, aging sucks”. But for me, that isn’t what it is.
I’m not afraid of aging. My fear revolves completely around my fear of dying young like my Mom. Of repeating my horrible family history. Of being yet another terrible statistic. Of knowing I still don’t have a child, and time is passing me by.
I see the snide comments about old Moms. About overweight people. About how we did it to ourselves and shouldn’t have waited so long.
I guess my birthday, the closer I get to 39, brings up the things I try to ignore most of the time. Then my birthday creeps up and I’m again reminded of how different this life is then what I had pictured. It brings in the fears that I will just repeat my family history.
It all bundles up into a ball of anxiety.
“I’m too old now to have a child because I’ll die before 40 anyway just like my Mom.”
“Even if I lose the weight, it won’t matter.”
That’s the kind of shit my anxious brain tells me. Even though I know I have taken the steps to change that story. I’ve had major surgery to force my body to get to a healthy weight. I’ve gotten rid of my fatty liver and pre-diabetes. I’m still on blood pressure medication, but the harsh reality is that is likely due to genetics and not my weight. I have 33-year-old embryo’s waiting for me once I reach goal weight and maintain to begin transferring again next year in the hopes that one finally sticks and makes it to take-home-baby status.
I’m doing all the right things. But my brain just doesn’t stop.
And here I am. 3 years from now I will be the age my Mom was when she died and that is a terrifying idea.
I so want to let the idea go, but I can’t. I know each year, as I sneak closer and closer to that age, my anxiety will peak to a higher level. All I can do is keep fighting to not succumb to my anxiety and make it past 39 unscathed.
And breathe. Mustn’t forget that step.