Growth

I became me, more or less, at 40 (or thereabouts). Okay, it’s more accurate to say that this was the year (or thereabouts) when I began to feel more comfortable and accepting of myself. I’d spent 40 years getting to know me and finally began making better, more Donna-appropriate decisions and fewer mistakes.

At 40, I loved my job. I really liked most of the paintings I was creating. I was less afraid of people.

To be abundantly clear, in the 23 years since hitting the actually-not-so-big 4-0, I’ve managed to squeeze in a vast and varied assortment of idiocies. I’ve made a smaller number of these boneheaded maneuvers though. It’s like I learned something. Huh.

Yea me, eh?

Despite the personal growth, I still struggle with comparing myself to other, more traditionally successful, women. Measuring myself against others is just mega stupid and utterly unfair. While I haven’t been an utter slave to my disease (Neurofibromatosis type2, thenkyewveddymuch), that fucker’s always been on the table, narrowing my life choices.

To be honest, between neglecting to be born into a money patch and having the social skills of a rabidly clueless wolverine, I can’t say with any confidence that, had I been NF2-free, my 20s and 30s would have been all that different. My wee affliction doubtless hastened my entrée into Therapy Land, but even if I’d been as physically healthy as Wonder Woman, I was still in dire need of serious self-analysis. I was a mess.

I’m currently reading a collection of essays, billed as a witty dispatch from the frontlines of the forties. It is indeed, at times, witty but the author’s from another, barely relatable world.

• She was surprised and saddened to realize, as a child, that her family was barely clinging to upper middle class status by their fingertips (gee, my heart just broke into itty bitty pieces for you).
• The theme for her bat mitzvah was shopping (no, really!).
• Though her parents seemed to have nothing in common, there were no battles, abuse or nasty scenes to witness or withstand.
• She went to private schools, a highly ranked liberal arts college and an Ivy for her master’s degree (courtesy of her rich granddad).


The author would have had to work extra special hard to fuck up this calm, money-licious, connection-heavy start in life. Yeah, I’m definitely jealous. Aside from this though, her book made me think. What can I claim to have achieved and learned in the 23 years since 40?

A partial list:

• I’m capable of cutting myself some slack. I’m not quite as harshly judgmental of me.
• I’m able to see and appreciate more shades of grey. I’m taking in a more complete picture of the world I inhabit. Very little is either wholly good or completely evil (except the salivating-over-Putin Republi/Fascist party. DUH!)
• I’ve survived losing The Amazing Bob, my hearing crapping out and more surgeries and lesser procedures than I can even remember.
• I can accept help now without automatically being consumed by guilt and shame for needing that assistance.
  

Also, after 40, only cats are able to walk all over me. This is, of course, as it should be.