Sunday, September 13, I turn 60. SIXTY. Seriously.
Oh shit that's today.
It also marks ten years since my last suicide attempt. I wrote about it, obviously (if you're bored, it's HERE.) I re-read that post last night. And the one before it. And I remember.
I remember my disappointment in myself. I didn't bring the method with me. I forgot it. I felt so stupid. Back then I ascribed that to cowardice. An intentional error. But now I wonder if really was just me being stupid and forgetting to do something.
So it's ten years I didn't want. I figured I'd inventory what I've done that was worthy with those ten years. Off the top of my head, the answer is:
Nothing.
I've lost people, including my mum. And my "Big Sister" Mel. Too many friends (cardiac, cancer kidneys, and, yes self.) The country has gone straight to hell (more on this later.) I've had to beg for money more times then I can count just to survive. I lost my bookstore job. And jobs since. After all these years, I still don't have a job that pays the bills.
Fifty
And what have I done to make the world a better place? I've spoken to some classes about LGBT 101 and such. Wrote and delivered trans 101 training for a while (until I was let go from that job.) I like to think that helped someone somewhere. I've mentored 3 "eggs" through their transition. Or at least their graduation.
I voted, for all the good that's done, given the current US nightmare. Volunteered for some candidates.
So, has that been worth ten years of pain? Frustration? Two terms of increasing fascism and hate toward people like me? Thing haven't gotten better as everyone promised. "Live! It'll get better!" No it fucking hasn't
That is a lie. Hope is a lie. Said it many times.
Worst part is, it's all my fault. All of it. If I hadn't transitioned, I may still be with my wife. If i hadn't forgotten the method, I would've been gone ten years back and avoided all this shit. If I didn't transition, maybe I could've actually found a real job. If I didn't chase the dream of academia, Linda would probably be comfortably retired by now and I wouldn't be so deep in medical debt there's no way an honest person could pay it off.
MY decisions. My life. Nothing but failures. 3650 days of failures. 5,260,320 minutes of being a waste of time and space. By now, everyone would've forgotten about me and gotten on with their lives had I...
Yet here I am, sixty years old, sitting in a small apartment in State College, drinking wine.
Yes, drinking wine. If someone asked what I wanted for my birthday, I would've answered a bottle of wine, so I could sit on the balcony, drink the wine, and either read or write. But I'm beyond flat broke. How did I get the wine?
Well, Linda bought it for me. She just hasn't found out yet. See, I used her atm card (with her permission) to buy supplies for dinner tonight, including wine. I didn't tell her how MUCH wine.
Two bottles instead of one. As Spock would say "an omission."
Yes, I will tell her when she gets home. And compensate her when I get paid. Because she didn't know. And that was an asshole move on my part.
Yes, I've sunk that low.
Sixty
So, I got what I wanted for my 60th. I saw Wife and daughter yesterday. And today, I sat on the balcony and drank wine. And I'm making a steak dinner (I bought the steak some time ago) with red wine to share with my bestie Linda.
And she'll be mad at me and never trust me again. Thus reinforcing my point above of "should've gone ten years ago."
But, I'm a fat coward, currently 2/3 through a bottle of wine, listening to Yes (Yes Album) and writing this shit to get it out of my system. Actually most of this was written longhand sitting on the balcony.
Drinking wine.
In State College on a sunny day.
Alive at sixty.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
Be well.
