It is important for me to keep writing. I have a physical journal where I put things. I put a hell of a lot of things on my Telegram channels and chat groups these days, and a sprinkle the rest over my poor husband’s ear while he’s trying to get some sleep. I’ve got to work on that.

Today is my 41st birthday. Not a very illustrious one, I’m afraid. Last year, turning 40 while I was still recovering from my wrestling match with Covid pneumonia and the traumatic events surrounding my son’s birth, I was shocked to find out I wasn’t too happy. I felt diffident about hosting a party in my weakened condition, but couldn’t imaging ringing in “the big 4-0” without inviting over a few friends. In usual fashion, for me, there was a clever invitation designed and printed, and sent around through the mail in colorful envelopes. That part was a joy.

And on the day of my party, the number of guests had grown until our little house was clanging and clattering with visitors and well wishers, known and unknown. There were pots of soup and hors d’oeuvres enough to spill over my heavy-laden dining table. There were people crowding in every room. Music. Kids populating the floor like spring rabbits. It should have made me feel warm, loved and fulfilled. Parties like this always made me happy. My 30th was like this, and it was one of the happiest nights of my life.

But it didn’t. Almost from the beginning of the party, my anxiety began to rise like mercury in an old fashioned thermometer. I could feel my brow tensing as I peered around like a caged animal at the various guests. Flashes from my recent ordeal with Covid kept arising in my mind, too. I would remember not being able to breath in the kitchen; walking through the living room with a long tube inserted in my nose, feeling like a ghost, already dead, wondering how I would make it my bedroom without passing out. These memories in this house were new, and the imposition of images of friends and neighbors filling the rooms didn’t make me feel any less a ghost. The memories of dying seemed real while the sight of friends laughing and talking was more like a dream.

Anxiety can do that to you. It can take you out of your body. Every one looks at you, and smiles, and you smile back, and they think you’re alright, and you’re not. I knew it would be best to confess my feelings to someone at once. It usually is part of the cure for me. I pulled a particularly empathic person aside and told her how anxious I was getting. She understood, and this helped. But there wasn’t much help otherwise. I was in for a long night.

But I have promises to keep,

and miles to go before I sleep,

miles to go before I sleep.

My baby decided to cry the entire time, and though I was exhausted and felt my oxygen was low, nobody offered to help me with him. I tried putting him to bed at the usual time, but he had never gone to sleep without me sleeping next to him, and he wasn’t about to learn tonight. In hindsight, I could have handled things better, asked for help, a lot of things. But I couldn’t think. So I just kept him with me, and he cried in my face all night, and no one, not even my mother could be prevailed upon to hold him. Ten o’clock, and another round of guests appeared. I could barely believe it. I felt flattered, and would never have asked them to leave so I could finally lay down. Instead, I stayed on stage and made myself carry out the actions that always would have accompanied my enjoyment of a social event. Lacking the real emotion of joy, I pantomimed it, and hoped my mimicry would convince my innermost self of my happiness.

This year, I am wiser. Knowing my weakness, I will not put myself through any such thing. At most, I’ve asked a friend to sit with the kids while they sleep, and my husband and I can sneak out someplace for a quick, late dinner. This is a rare event for us, and never could have happened during the days of covid and vaccine passports, masks and all the rest. Even now, asking anyone to sit with my three little children, even when they are in bed, is painfully difficult. I guess its part of my overall difficulty with asking for help. I’m afraid that in asking, people will judge me for not being able to take care of everything myself. Or that if they will help, they will let me down in some way. I’m afraid to leave my kids with other people, and afraid to burden people with the difficulty of dealing with my kids. And then there’s money. We don’t have any budget for professional childcare. We’ve tried to work it through, and its just not possible. All we can do it rely on a few trustworthy friends to do a little on a special occasion. But this is a place to start, right? Already I’ve gone from being completely unable to ask for help with the kids, to asking a few friends to occasionally sit with them while I take my “medicine” walk. And now this birthday dinner date with my husband. I’m getting better with this.

Well. I can’t imagine anyone being interested in reading about my unpleasant mental health struggles and raising a family. But there it is. I guess, to sum up, I’m still in “survival mode” as they call it. And now I’m a year older: 41. The fact that I expected to be quite pregnant at this point is another dreary layer of negativity that I won’t go into right now. The fact that my miscarried baby’s remains are awaiting burial in a box in our freezer, and that things with this burial are already not going as planned, is a lament for another day.

Wow. This level of birthday negativity is really unprecedented. It’s like Charlie Brown on heroine. Where’s the Vince Guaraldi piano jazz?

Now that I’ve lost everyone, and the room, once full of chatterers and fair-weather friends, has cleared, I will say this:

My faith is still intact. I believe in God. I believe God has a plan for me. He has a plan for my life and for my death. Everything he gives me, though it be a cross, is ultimately for my salvation. My task is to carry it, and keep going. This is the lesson of Lent.

Today, writing is a way to carry that cross. Telling stories is healing, and we know this to be true. So I’m going to keep scribbling, drawing, writing, and talking. I’m going to “trudge the road of happy destiny” as we say in AA. I will give thanks to the Lord at all times, and I will keep my pencil moving.