I'm 36, Exhausted of Life, and Have No Idea Where to Go From Here

Sitting under the beating rays of the sun, sweating out my existential dread, I remember we are all just carbon-based, mouth-breathing sacks of flesh waiting for our turn to start the process of decomposition. In short, we live, we fight, we love, we toil, we dream, we feel, and we die.

From a more pleasant perspective: we are animated stardust. A bundle of particles imbued with the breath of life. Prancing around blindly, existing within the nothing and the everything.

At 36, I feel exhausted. Though I do have a wonderful partner and amazing children, I feel like the rest of life has fallen through the cracks. It’s been ages since I’ve felt alive with the sound of humanity reverberating off of others in my wake. Since I’ve shared hearty laughs, enormous dreams, and deep-seated, born again feelings. Nothing seems real. Nothing but the gleam of the stars and the sounds of birdsong.

Career-wise, I’m stuck. I’ve loved writing since I was a teen. Connecting with others has always been of utmost importance to my existence. Yet, I find that the broader industry doesn't seem to appreciate my appeal. Anytime I write, I find that I have many compliments and a few die-hard fans. However, time and again, I’m deemed too unique for the mainstream. This seems to be a theme throughout my life.

Before writing, it was singing. Since I was four years old I knew I would be a singer. Yet over the years that piece of me was stolen. Stolen by the society for which we all end up consumed. With no support system and buckets of criticism, despite my sheer raw talent and dedication, I broke. I gave in, and gave up.

Child abuse leaves many of us with a string of heartaches, and a bucket of broken dreams. I seem to be no exception. Despite talent, intelligence, persistence, resilience - despite being the definition of an artist; I find myself left behind and under-appreciated. Money, too, makes the world go round and unfortunately, I ain’t got none of that, neither.

Being a stay-at-home disabled mother has been my main role for many years. I don’t hate it, but it was never my dream. It still isn’t.

A few weeks ago, my cousins and I were having a conversation. Each of them had always known they wanted to be a mother, just as I had always known from the time I was four that I wanted to be a performer. What’s funny about this, is that it never occurred to either of them that anyone else, like me, might want something different for their lives. Having children never factored into my decisions as a child. As a teen, I actively decided that I didn’t want children. The creative spirit I have drives me forward at full blast, like the engine of a freight train. When my heart beats, it beats to the sound of music, art, song, dance, and love. Creativity has always been, and will continue to be, my life’s driving force. This is not to say that I don’t love my children. I absolutely do, but I am not a one-dimensional being. Both the fact that I need creativity to live, and the fact that I deeply love my children can congruently be true.

Mothering without support is soul-sucking. Raising children without the village is traumatizing. Singularly taking responsibility for another human life is utter imposed brutality. The society of the individual is killing my spirit, and slowly it is killing us all. Individuality culls creativity by way of killing the audience. Collaboration becomes impossible. Before you know it, we all slog along, crushed under the thump of individuality, isolation, and capitalism, which all go together, hand-in-hand. No longer can I live this way. How can we all be so contented to live this way?

The oppressor at a certain point no longer has to exert his control. Eventually, the population leads themselves into the slaughterhouse. Having forgotten who we really are, we’ve lead ourselves down the paths of our own destruction.

Do I know how to fix any of it? No. I just know that I am here and feeling this way, and that I cannot be the only one. I am here with you, and you are here with me. Maybe it’s not us. Maybe it’s a sick society. A society that turns a blind eye. A society which worships money and narcissism. A society which allows power to rule in lieu of our hearts.

Part of the reason I feel so stuck at 36 is due to the false notion that everything wrong with us is 100% our own problem. In an individualistic society, when someone comes out and expresses they have an issue, the response is always that the person themselves is doing something to perpetuate their own suffering. This is simply not true. People do not get themselves into all varying states and situations alone. People end up in dire straights due to the lack of care we as a society provide. A lack of support, a lack of healthcare, a lack of basic compassion. The United States of Lack.

For instance, I became disabled through no fault of my own by catching covid days before we even realized it was in the United States; before we knew about long covid or the implications of infection. Finding help, support, or even medical professionals who would listen to me took months and thousands of dollars. For the longest time, people thought I was making up my condition. I couldn’t understand why. Why would I fake so much suffering? Waste so much of my time and money? Then people dismissed it as anxiety, since I do have a history of anxiety. Which, to be honest, hurt just as much. As someone with 20+ years experience with anxiety, I thought my friends and family would take my word for it when I expressed that I was certain that it was not anxiety. Then I realized something - that if sudden disability could happen to me, without any warning, explanation, and rhyme nor reason, it could also happen to them just the same. Fear is the driver of many people’s cars; a lesson I have had to learn over and over again.

Having my mid-life derailed by CPTSD, a pandemic, and disability has been quite the challenge for which I never expected to deal. To add insult to injury, this economy and political climate in America was never anticipated, either. Though, we all face our own set of challenges. I just need to know - how do I get back to good?

On one hand, without a stable career or an outlet for my creativity with others, I feel as though I’m floundering. On the other hand, I can’t go out and find these spaces or jobs with limited physical ability and being a full-time stay-at-home mother. I know that one day soon, my children will be adults. A day that I’ll both dread and rejoice. For I’ll miss guiding these little lives and holding them close, but I’ll finally feel freed from this immense burden of raising a life with meager support.

Challenges have not stopped me before, nor will they now. Resilience is my middle name. Persistence is my first. But, why must it always be that way? Why must everything we earn come at such a price? Clawing our way toward peace is such an oxymoron, and yet a pervasive reality. Is there not such a place where we can all be free, all live in creative, collaborative peace without first selling our souls? This place, this is where I would love to go.

I’m 36, exhausted of life, and have no idea where to go from here. I just know where I have already been I have little interest in revisiting. The future is bright, but in several directions. Despite all the forks in the road, today seems to be the only day that really matters.