It's my 53rd birthday today - I'm ten years older than I used to be. And potentially ten years younger than I'm going to be. I don't know if that makes me young or old - I think it just makes me 53.
For me - I feel good about 2019. I choose to believe the worst of my grief and issues are behind me and my journey forward is now much closer to everyone else - ie I'm sure I won't get everything right but I'll try not to make a royal fuck up every time a little snag comes my way. I'm calling resolutions 'goals' this year.
Until today, I'd never heard the phrase abuse by omission. But now I've heard it, I feel like I've come home.
It's 35 days since I touched down on terra firma. Jet lag's done and dusted, the big adventure receding into once upon a time status, and I'm settled back into normality - taking for granted the luxuries of my pillow, my car, and our pristine drinking water. Yet for most of those 35 days, my mental health has been really shit.
I arrived in Lisbon a mental mess. The two hour flight from Pisa airport, on our most budget airline, turned me into a blithering ball of batshit crazy. It was time to see a doctor before my oldest and dearest friends traded me in for a better model.