melancholia
It's my birthday tomorrow and my annual pre-birthday melancholy has officially touched down after circling for the last few days.
It happens like clockwork. I'll be excited about my birthday, the opportunity to see friends, to celebrate, to laugh, to shout, to be mirthful... and then all of that fades and everything (like, everything) starts to feel stupid and empty and pointless. It's not any of those things, but it sure feels like it.
All of these feelings are being projected onto a very specific backdrop. I spent this past weekend in Collingwood, ON for a family event (an important birthday) that went shockingly well and left me feeling positive and hopeful about family for the first time in years. It was like something deep inside me got unstuck. I felt true, sustained joy and it felt foreign.
Shortly after my partner and I returned home, though, I sobbed. I was sitting up in bed waiting for her to finish brushing her teeth when I got hit by a lightning bolt of panic and worry and something that wasn't fear but which felt kind of like fear. I sobbed until my eyes were glossy and my chest felt tight. I started thinking about how the next time I'd see everyone would likely be at a funeral, and even though I'm not terrible with death, I don't like to think about people dying. My father and I are estranged and haven't talked in ten years, but thinking about him dying makes a part of me break. My mom is my hero and is the strongest and most vibrantly alive person I've ever known and the idea that she will be lifeless and inert some day fills me with a paralyzing kind of sadness (or a sad kind of paralysis).
See also: my brothers, their partners, their kids, my friends, whoever else. Three of my friends died over the course of four or so months between late 2024 and early 2025 and IDK if I've even processed it all. I don't know if I ever will. I don't know what that says about me, but I don't think it bodes well for the future.
So, yeah. Birthdays make me think about life which makes me think about death. I'm not ready to die. I suspect I won't be for a long while, but I know that death will come whether I've prepared the guest bedroom or not.
Writing all this should fill me with energy, vim, vigour, vinegar, and whatever else, but it doesn't. I don't feel inclined to do anything to prove my vitality. I don't feel motivated to carpe any diems. I kind of just want to sit here like a loaf and gracefully decompose over time.
IT
IS
WHAT
IT
IS
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