I turned 43 last week. Kind of a nothing age really.
I felt sad to let go of being 42 as, at the very least, I felt important thanks to Douglas Adams and his meaning of life. Yet now I am arching toward my mid-forties with no means of going back. It does not terrify me yet, I am left with the same malaise I usually feel on my birthday.
I am not everything I could be.
I don’t know what being everything I could be would involve, but I know it is more than what I am. My life is blessed, I have more than I ever could have envisioned, but I know that I am lacking. I still feel that I fail at so much; as a parent, as a partner, as a father, as a human being.
Of course, there is not really such a thing as failing, there are only lessons and their application and with that I feel completely comfortable. I am always eager to grow, to learn, to be confronted by myself. Yet I do still feel that I do not use my time wisely enough, that I don’t DO more.
But there is something in my head, some distraction perhaps, some wall which stops me, prevents me from going on. Over time I have taken down a great portion of it, but it persists.
I don’t know what it is. Perhaps doubt. Perhaps fear. Worthlessness. Inability. Cowardice.
Whatever it is, it leaves me sat upon the stoop of every birthday feeling that I am not everything I could be.
So here I am, again looking to the future and rummaging through the back bins of my mind searching for ways through the following twelve months.
I hope to be triumphant this time next year. As I did this time last year.
One birthday soon I will give myself the greatest of presents.
Then you’ll probably never hear from me again.
Contentment does not a blog writer make.