Existential crises are to me as iced coffee is to white women on social media: literally no one asked, yet it still makes its way into every other post.
My 25th birthday is in one week, and tradition mandates a rambling, pedantic blog post about my fleeting life.
The 24th year of my life was a definite improvement over the cataclysmic 23rd. I was finally given a true diagnosis for my mental illness and put on antidepressants. I had two full-blown relationships and two subsequent breakups (one in which I was the dumper, the other in which I was the dumpee). I started doing yoga and discovered a passion for it. I started taking fitness more seriously. I cleaned out my closet and now only wear clothes I actually like, with the exception of workplace attire.
I’ve become more comfortable with myself than I ever have before. I rarely wear makeup, after years of doing a full face every day. My hair has finally grown back to its normal hippie-ish state after I chopped it all off in 2017. For the first time in forever, I recognize myself in the mirror.
I grew a lot emotionally. Incidents that would have once sent me spiraling for months are taken in stride. I’ve said to men, “I deserve better than this.” I’ve learned that something stable with plans for a future is better for me than a passionate fairy-tale romance. Thanks to antidepressants, I was able to go a few days without crying or wishing I was dead for the first time in years. Turns out that wasn’t normal, who knew?
I lost plenty as well. I lost a job. I lost the person I thought was the love of my life so he could focus on music. I lost a friend due to my veganism, and my apologies went ignored.
I don’t even know how to celebrate my birthday this year. Last year, I went to Disneyland, but this year I have no money to spare. I don’t want to pile all this on my boyfriend, as this isn’t his responsibility. I think I’m dreading 25 because it means my 20s are half over, at which point I might as well just expire. Existential dread swirls within me: I have no career path, I’ll never get married, I’ll never have a house, I’ll never be a real person. What am I DOING????
Despite all this, I think the 24th year of my life was the first year I became whole.