It’s only day three and I’m bloody stumped. Probably doesn’t help that I’ve been somewhat occupied with my husband today. It’s his birthday, so I’m on wife duty. You know, spoiling him and all. By that I mean letting him get away with murder, the usual.
Birthdays always get you thinking about age, don’t they? Next month I’ll be 28. I don’t feel any particular way about that. Every now and again I’ll have a moment of “oh god” when I’m introduced to a fresh-faced girl and there’s the “I’m 21!”. It’s usually followed by the jolting thought that at 21, my life and career possibilities were infinitely more than what they are now. This has nothing to with age, funnily enough. When I was 21, I didn’t have Fibromyalgia. I didn’t have pain that sometimes confined me to my bed. I didn’t have to carefully decide my every day’s plans, to be sure there is always somewhere to sit. It’s not something I ever thought I’d have to worry about.
As I get closer to 30, I know I need to make peace with the fact that I’ll never have the busy career I once planned on. I’m getting there, but it’s bloody hard trying to convince potential employers to hire me, based on the fact that sometimes I can’t focus on my own bloody hands, the pain is that bad. Yet I can’t quite find it in myself to ‘give up’. By that I mean find a new reality where I try and find something that suits my body, rather than my mind.
I can’t lose hope though. I’m 28 next month…