Tomorrow (the 13th) is my birthday. My 48th birthday, to be exact. Today marks three years since I sat in the orange leather chair in the living room of our sweet little cottage in Shreveport and listened to my (now) ex-husband enumerate the many ways he felt I had failed him and our two children. Three years since I had to hold my breath and swallow my rage. Since I’ve had the time, space, and energy to pursue my own goals and contemplate how I want to contribute to the world in the second act of my life.

So why am I so…depressed?

For one thing, it’s 2025, and the world is on fire, thanks in large part to our national embarrassment, President Yam Tits. For another, I’m finally accepting, three years in, that this time of year will probably always be triggering for me to some degree. So far, I haven’t found a way through it except to white-knuckle it. Lord knows I’ve tried to plan or prepare my way out of it, distract myself, or, my personal favorite, fake it ’til I make it.

Thanks to Charlotte, both my previous post-divorce birthdays have been as happy as possible. Fortunately, she’s in New Orleans for this one, too, and she even planned a small cake-and-champagne get-together with a couple friends. (She’s back to do the rest of her packing and moving. She didn’t want to take her furniture and other large items with her until she signed a lease.)

An aside, as well as a sign of the times: Because of the federal government’s open hostility toward transgender individuals, not to mention the State of Texas’s, I don’t actually know Charlotte’s new address. I know which state she lives in but not the town. Closest I can get you is the region – maybe. When I go to visit, she will pick me up from the airport in the closest large city, which is apparently a fair piece, as we say in the South, from her new place.

No one can get from me, through any means, information I don’t have.

Fascism aside for the moment, I’m glad Charlotte is here and friends will be around. Truman and Harper can’t be here for my actual birthday on Tuesday, but I’m picking Truman up for the summer Wednesday. So don’t feel sorry for me; it’s all going to be OK.

The problem, I think, is that somewhere in my subconscious, I’m expecting or wanting this big, flashy, dramatic…something to come along to prove to me once and for all and show everyone else that LO, THIS WOMAN, SHE IS HEALED! You did it, Phelan: You survived. You never have to so much as THINK about this traumatic experience ever again. But that’s not how healing works, is it? Even when it appears miraculous, healing is the result of countless tiny processes within the body and brain. And, healing or no, I’ll forever have to deal with the toll this series of events took on my psyche. No amount of healing can erase what he did.

There will never be a victorious, tear-stained moment when I’ll break through the ribbon stretched across the finish line of the shittiest marathon ever. But, damn it all, I want my medal!

[Intermission: A Text Exchange with the (Biomedical) Engineer]

Me: Would it be most accurate to say healing is the result of a) hundreds of tiny processes, b) thousands, or c) millions? Google doesn’t understand what I’m trying to ask, probably because I don’t, either, and ChatGPT scares me because I’m better at math than it is, and that should terrify EVERYONE.
This is for a blog post.

Him: “Myriad” has you covered, but it is much less direct than your regular voice.
“Countless” is less correct than “myriad” but clearer for most readers.

Him: “A chemical cavalcade of countless curative constituents” also has a certain je ne sais quoi.

Him: Myriad medical mending molecules making me mighty.

Me: You need to be writing this blog, dude. I’m over here using a marathon metaphor while you’re winning alliteration.

[Aaaaaaand scene.]
—

No, healing looks like going to bed one night and realizing you didn’t cry once that day. Or maybe you didn’t cry in public. Or you cried in public fewer times today than you did yesterday.

You get up the gumption to file your taxes or register for classes. Then you take one class and think, Maybe I could really do this. You wash the dishes or do a load of laundry without having a flashback.

You write or draw or paint or sew something. Maybe it’s in the margin of your grocery list or in a text or just in your head. It doesn’t matter – though you’re hurting, your brain pushed out beauty. That’s who you are.

I have a laundry list of goals I’ve yet to achieve, and it always seems somehow longer around my birthday. Time is a finite resource, and it’s hard to keep taking your lofty long-term goals seriously when you can’t seem to fulfill some of your most fundamental needs, like a full-time job. (It’s a whole-ass horror novella out there, y’all. More on that demoralizing situation later, but if you know anyone who’s hiring in New Orleans or hiring remotely anywhere, let ya girl know.)

Of course, if you insist on taking the longest possible view of success, and my brain most certainly does at this time of year, it will never look like much, or even enough. Let’s say I get a full-time job tomorrow (from this keyboard to god’s ear); is that successful enough? Or is it only successful if I work there at least five years? Will it be enough after I win an award? That one award?

How about marriage? Why is a marriage considered successful only if it lasts until one of you DIES? I mean, while my own marriage was no triumph, I wouldn’t consider it wholly unsuccessful, either. Ours was, for the first few years, at least, a quirky love story full of joy and laughter. We had two beautiful children, a cute home, and the goofiest wall-eyed dog that ever lived. It ended in tragedy, but, prior to that, I probably would’ve called it an overall success.

Now why is it so difficult for me to look at the rest of my life through the lens of grace, reality, and perspective? That might be the best birthday gift I could give myself. Maybe you need a present, too.

Tonight, I go to bed with two choices: I can wake up tomorrow with a mental list of all the ways my life isn’t progressing as quickly, directly, or aesthetically as I’d prefer, then beat myself in the face with it. My other choice involves acceptance, perseverance, frosting, and bubbles.

I’ll try to choose wisely.

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