Friday, July 29, 2005

30 Going on 30

I was 27 when I re-singled myself to society. I guess you can say that I was advanced for my age.

The typical (late) twentysomething stage is usually highlighted with the realization of dreams; the first car you buy with your own money, the dream wedding, the start of a family, initial marital bliss. If you’re still single, you may have moved out of your parents’ home and started living the dream of total independence, financial and otherwise. Everything is punctuated by the drunken high of being young and invincible, of having the world at your feet.

My twentysomething stage started typically enough with the realization of those dreams. My bubble was just pre-maturely punctured by the reality of having a baby to raise, settling into another new home, and making ends meet. All with the sobering thought that I would have to do all this on my own. I refused to be thought of as weak, but I did know that I was extremely vulnerable.

Being a twentysomething prodigy was a bit disorienting, to say the least. I was patronized, quickly dismissed as being petty or simply looked down on for having the audacity to dishonor matrimonial vows.

I was a misfit. Neither here or there. An In-Between. Though I had people to lean on, I felt like I had no one to talk to who could understand.

The Singles were too caught up in their personal and professional success to comprehend the massive implications of domestic dilemmas such as losing a Yaya. The married folk didn’t want to be with me for fear that what I had was contagious (I had ‘separation anxiety’ of a different kind). My family, dealing with their own confusion, was torn between trying to get us back together and just doing the right thing.

Looking back at it now, I don’t know how I survived that stage. All I can remember is drowning myself in work. I felt like such a failure at the homefront so I concentrated on something I knew I could do well. I was starved for validation and tried to find it in my job.

I remember going out and partying with a determination surpassed only by my anguish and grief. Anything to numb the pain. Anything to keep the bitterness from eating away at what was left of me. The only thing I probably didn’t do was drink myself into a coma, but that’s only because I don’t drink. Not that it mattered. Whatever else I did at the time had the same effect.

I got what I so desperately longed for -- oblivion.

Unfortunately, the very nature of oblivion is to erase in an encompassing, non-selective way. My oblivion was like a black hole. While it gave me release from the bondage of the past, it also took away the joys of the present. Its price was missing out on certain milestones in Kiddo’s life. I only recall that I dreaded going home and having to face her, as I would be overwhelmed by the feelings of guilt and inadequacy. Looking at her was like coming face to face with self-doubt. I would inevitably start asking myself, “How am I going to get through this?”, “Did I do the right thing?”. Questions that only time could answer.

I remember approaching the big 3--0 with trepidation. I was barely out of my twentys and already had so much baggage, what if baggage was directly proportional to age?

Now I’m half way through it. Being 30,that it is.

It wasn’t at all what I thought it would be. Apart from the expected self-actualization, I found that surviving my tragedy built strength of character. A new sense of self-esteem, along with renewed courage and gratitude came with being 30.

I could look at myself in the mirror, flaws and all, and accept myself in spite of them. I could take pride in my achievements with only honesty, no arrogance, no false humility. I could look at Kiddo no longer with guilt, but with awe at seeing little bits of myself (and yes, her Dad) amazingly alive in her. No matter what else I may have done wrong, God must have still thought me worthy to be her Mother.

I stopped regretting and started living. I stopped punishing myself by thinking that I didn’t deserve to be happy.

I’m sure I will still encounter people who think it is their obligation to feel sorry for me and Kiddo, but the more important thing is that I don’t feel sorry for myself. I am not resigned to my fate, but am content being “happily separated”. It may have taken me awhile to get to this stage, but the only thing that matters is that I did.

If this makes me a 30-year-old prodigy, then maybe now I can start acting my age.