Spoiler alert: there’s gonna be a lot of navel gazing and self deprecation in all these posts about turning 40. So if you’re not in the mood to watch someone verbally flagellate themselves, turn back now.
It’s those moments, late at night, when there’s no messages to answer, there’s no sound from the TV, when the static is quiet, when I’m left alone with my thoughts. Only me and my thoughts. It’s those moments that are the worst.
I used to have a plan. I used to think that when I reached 40, that’s the point that I’d kill myself and just get it over with. 40 is a nice round number, it’s a nice long time to live, right? So, here we are, a little under halfway to 41 and I didn’t die, so what happened, what changed? A lot actually. More. Way more than I could’ve ever imagined.
But sometimes, just sometimes, the ghost of that plan still lingers. You could still do it you know it would say to me. You don’t have to end things on a nice round number. Those times only happen when I’m having a bad time, sort of like this week. But I’ve no plans to give in or give up or whatever other silly positive platitudes people like to say during dark times. It’s not that I’m staying alive for anyone or anything, per se, it’s more along the lines of staying alive simply out of spite to see where this all goes. Misery loves company and whatnot.
I know it’s several months later than I planned, but here is, at least, the first article I planned to write on my series about turning 40. My confession, if you will. But before you flood my inbox or the comments section with worry, no, I’m not going to kill myself so spare yourself the anguish and spare me the annoyance, thank you. I’ve more to say and do and I have no intentions of going anywhere until I’m finished.