Mostly True Things

I fell out of writing this blog for a while, primarily ‘cause y’all freaked me out. People started paying attention to what I was saying. But not only that, the wanted to talk to me about it. Horror of horrors. There’s a line from Margaret Atwood (The Blind Assassin): The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.

And that’s true. I’d think of things I wanted to write down, things I wanted to say and thought ought to be said, but then I’d think about you. Reading it. Thinking about it. Talking about it. The funny thing about it is that all the talking was positive. If you’d come up and started arguing my points, I wouldn't have got quiet until I pointed out all the numerous ways you’re wrong, with citations and references to boot.

But all of that is beside the point, and nothing to do with anything else I have to say. So do with it what you will.

I turned 30 recently, and with that came the constant question How does it feel to be 30? To which I’d just shrug and say, like all the other ages. Which, in a way, is true. My inner timescape hasn't really advanced much in the past ten years, and I’d quite easily believe I'm still 17 or 19 (I have a thing for the odd numbers). Of course then I run into a 17 or 19 year old and think… Well, that bit’s probably best left in my head, but you can extrapolate.

Having had a few weeks to settle into the number a bit (I can deal with it being even because there’s a 3 in it; anyone who figures out why the kid with OCD likes numbers that can’t be divided symmetrically gets a gold star), I have to say it isn't really like all the other ages at all.

It could just be an arbitrary thing. The experiences of the past few years – this year in particular – all coming together at that perfect germination point to really set in. I think I've learned some things, or gotten better at them.

Letting go is one. A pretty big one, actually. I have loyalty issues, namely possessing too much of it. Generally works out great for everyone else, not so particularly awesome for me in certain instances.

Sometimes people do fucked up things, and it has nothing to do with me. It’s not my job to fix them. It’s not my job to take it just because I'm capable of taking it, or because I see they have the potential to be better. Or any of the other reasons. Sometimes, those people do fucked up things because they’re fucked up. Simple as that. And it is totally okay, in those situations, to say I Quit.

There are things that happen that I will never have explanations for, no matter how many questions I ask, how many hypothetical scenarios I run through, how many possible motivations or reasonings. Sometimes it’s because the explanations themselves don’t even make sense to anyone but the person giving them (come on, you all know at least one of those). Sometimes explanations aren't even given. Catalysts occur behind the curtain and all you see is the aftermath. Refer back to the previous paragraph.

There is a finite number of chances for redemption. Well, maybe not for redemption in general, but at least redemption as it pertains to me. Forgiveness has to be earned, for one, and it can be. Once, twice, I've even be known to allow people to earn it up into the double digits. Twice this year I've had people wander back into my life who departed under very shitty circumstances who neither wanted to bother with the earning part, or understand why I wasn't leaping for joy just to see them. Both times – and I have to say I was quite proud of myself because even so there was that little voice that said, well maybe… - I quite firmly refused. I think I finally realised that those people – the ones who circle, then throw tantrums when things don’t go exactly their way and storm off for months – those people need me more than I need them. And I'm allowed to say no, thank you. It’s not my job to fix them.

I also realised that for quite some time – possibly all of it – I haven’t been completely present in my own life. I've been over there a bit, observing and cataloguing while the physical me goes through the motions (with, admittedly, not as much grace as I’d prefer but we do what we can). All writer-y types do that to a certain extent; it’s how we do what we do. But it’s also a matter of self-defence. Like running away from my blog because people wanted to talk to me about it, wanted to engage, wanted me to actually be present.

Okay. I lied. It does relate to the beginning, but this will never be read, so I can nudge the truth. See what we’re doing now? Good.

There are these moments, though, after some reflection (usually the reflection of someone else) where I realise that a lot of things I take for granted aren't actually part of the run-of-the-mill day-to-day routine of the average person. For those moments, I am fully and one hundred percent present in my life, and it feels incredibly surreal.

A bit like when you fall asleep on the train and wake up without realising you've been asleep at all, except you've travelled x amount of miles during that very long blink so unless you've mastered time travel (which is a possibility you secretly believe, though you’ll never admit that aloud to anyone else), you must have been asleep.

I don’t particularly like it, which is probably why I very quickly retreat to my Impartial Observer guise. It’s more comfortable, though I don’t think entirely beneficial.

I'm reluctant to ascribe these realisations to a specific age, though. Everyone who turned 30 would have to realise all of these things as well for the correlation to be anything more than coincidence. There is something to looking back and seeing that, yes. I have moved forward – with my ambitions, my goals, and as an individual. Maybe it’s something you do when you turn 30 (I've only done it once, so I wouldn't know). Maybe it’s something you do any time you turn an age that is considered arbitrarily significant for reasons no one can really remember. Maybe it’s just something you do when you have mastered one of those soul-tasks you've struggled with for as long as you can remember, because there is no celebration for that. No one brings out the cake and candles for advancing as a human being – but then, most of the time we are the only ones who ever witness it.