Here I am, turning thirty-six, childless, struggling to pay rent, approaching or already having a mid-life crisis, depending on the day. Almost two weeks after several insurrectionists stormed the Capitol building because they believe a narcissist actually cares about them. And my birthday just following the day we remember one of the greatest civil rights activists in history.
I cannot get into my thoughts about that right now. I just spoke to my mom yesterday and she said she never would have thought she would see a day as she did on January 6th, 2021.
My Gramma died on Sunday. She's been in a nursing home for the past several years suffering from dementia. She was the last grandparent I had that was still alive. She was ninety-seven so she had a long life, and other than dementia finally attacking her, overall she was in decent health.
Gramma and Pa were the grandparents I went camping with as a kid up in Lake George, NY. My parents and I, some of my cousins, uncles, and aunts would all camp on the same site. I have memories of fishing, riding my bike with my cousins, Fuzzy, the German Shepherd (she is why I love German Shepherds), and Frosty.
For whatever reason Frosty was my invisible friend that only came with me when we went camping. Some of you may recall that I had an invisible twin sister named Jessica and an invisible farm. (Lonely kid, remember?).
I have to say, I love Olaf from Frozen, and perhaps my child-brain thought Frosty would enjoy summertime.
Gramma loved to tell the story that one time she was helping me climb onto the bars on the playground, and then I turned around and said, "Frosty, do you need Gramma to help you?" I then asked my Gramma to help Frosty. She looked around to see if anyone was watching us, and then proceeded to help Frosty up the bars.
I have good memories with my grandparents. My Pa died when I was nineteen. But my dad's side of the family had a lot of drama.
I won't get into all that either. I may already have. But despite knowing she was going to pass after having a stroke at the end of December, it's still sad.
I'm also depressed that if COVID was not still surging in America right now (the first reported case was on my birthday last year), I would not be able to afford to travel to New York to pay my respects. Very few people have taken notice of me over the years, and very few people have been generous to think I'm worth $5-a-month to subscribe to.
But I also think of how many have died because of coronavirus and that they died alone. How their families were not able to be beside them to hold their hand as they passed away.
400,000 Americans dead because of coronavirus since the first reported case on this date last year, and a segment of the population still believes it is a hoax.
Anxiety has become a close friend with my depression. So here I am, at thirty-six, a failed sex worker trying to figure out what she should do in the next chapter of her life, amidst a pandemic, that will make her happy. That might impact change in a few to be more open-minded, compassionate, and evoke empathy. But now I'm thirty-six and this is the age Marilyn Monroe died.