40

I always thought people made too much of a big deal of 40. Now it’s here, and I’m not sure how I feel anymore.

Part of me is looking back at all I haven’t accomplished in the last 40 years and blaming myself pretty heavily. I can see some pretty big mistakes on my part, and I can see some problems that were completely out of my control—not least of which is what the world has learned about brains so far—but if I’m being completely honest, those were so far out of anyone’s control that there’s nobody else to pin them on. So I make them my own.

Part of me is proud that I’m still alive and living a relatively happy life. But that part wants to celebrate, and when I think about celebrating, I remember that I don’t exactly have a list of people I could invite to a party. Even if I wanted to host a party which, okay, I’m not entirely sure would be a good idea. Parties are exhausting even to attend, and if you’re hosting, you can’t exactly leave halfway through.

Part of me would like to ignore my birthday altogether. Why engage with these mixed-up feelings about something that I never used to think was particularly important anyway? Would it be safer to say no cake, no cards, no mention of it? How would I feel afterwards? Relieved, or disappointed?

But most of me… well, most of me wants to tease out why exactly I feel the way I feel. I do love figuring things out. And I think I’ve figured out this thing.

I constructed an identity on three pillars: music, mental health, communication. Now music is up in the air because I’m waiting 9-12 months for an appointment with an ENT (“let me know if your voice gets worse or you can’t swallow,” says my family doc), mental health is up in the air because I’m waiting, apparently, yearsfor an appointment that will likely give me a different diagnosis altogether than the one I spent so long adjusting to, and communication has ground almost to a halt because those other two pillars are what I communicate about.

I’m turning 40, the age at which I’m told we’re supposed to stop giving a shit what anyone else thinks because we’re finally so sure of ourselves, and I’m at a complete loss.

Here I am, trying to tell myself that turning 40 isn’t just no big deal, it’s a relief because I finally get to be myself and not care if people give me strange looks for it, but I don’t believe me because I’ve lost that certainty. It was easy to talk about specific constellations of symptoms when I had a label for what was wrong with my brain, it was easy to identify myself as a singer when I could sing. I could say I had a blog when I actually posted to it. 

That’s my midlife crisis. I’ve lost my labels, and it turns out I was using them as the solid ground on which I built my self-image. I can’t stop worrying what other people think because at least other people see somethingwhen they look at me.

But then, when I say I don’t see myself, it doesn’t ring quite true. I think of all the work I’ve done in the last two and a half years, getting to know myself… well, maybe I do see someone when I look at me. And maybe the picture is a lot more nuanced than music, mental health, communication. I think about the songs I’ve written for the album, and I realise that I know me better than anyone.

So, if what I’m scared of is not knowing who I am as I get older, my fear is baseless. I’m relying on a self-image that came out of a time of deep struggle, when I needed to cling to a few true things. I don’t need to do that anymore. I can sit with the complexity, let it wash over me, and not be afraid of drowning in it.

Hell, I’m 40.