Member-only story
Happy 3rd (re)Birthday To Me!
Reflecting on three years since I survived my own plans
cw: topic of suicide
It’s mid-June, 2023, and I’m celebrating my 3rd birthday by being endlessly kind and patient with myself and telling myself that I’m a gorgeous, talented, otherworldly bad bitch every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. Sometimes even when I don’t.
Perhaps you’re thinking, “This writer is either a preternaturally gifted toddler or, more likely, a middle-aged broad who’s out of her gourd.”
I know myself well — the latter may not be far from the truth. People have called me crazy all my life and I’ve come to wear it as something of a badge of honor.
Still, I’ll explain what I mean when I refer to my (re)birth 3 years ago.
The Big Bad Nearly Broke Me
It was November of 2019, and I was a 46-year-old single, childfree woman in the depths of despair. I’d lost a job I hated (I was a cannabis copywriter) six months prior and I’d not been able to find another — I felt I had nothing but debt to show for my decades on earth.
The notion of suicide had long ago taken up residence in the back of my mind, and now its siren song was calling me. Loudly.