Skydiving on my birthday

Imagine for a moment that you hate the idea of skydiving. That you can’t think of anything you want to do LESS. Imagine that the thought of jumping out of an airplane fills you with so much anxiety that you’re paralyzed. Almost literally—your entire nervous system is just in a freeze response. You might not even be able to talk. But you’re in the airplane anyway, and the door is open. 

Now imagine that a bunch of people you love are on the ground. Somehow you can hear their voices calling up to you from the ground. (Ignore the laws of physics for the sake of the metaphor.) They’re saying they love you and they appreciate you, and it means a lot to hear it. 

But what you really actually want is for them to be in the airplane with you. Or for you to be on the ground with them. You want to sit around and talk and maybe have a campfire and sing songs or share poetry. You want connection. But in this scenario, the only way to get that connection is to jump out of the airplane. 

That’s how I feel every year on my birthday. 

I turned 38 last week. For the first time, I felt a tinge of existential dread about getting older. In general, I think aging is beautiful and embracing each phase of life is beautiful. But I did have a vague sense of not being where I thought I would be at this age. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with where I am, it’s just so different from visions I had when I was younger, and I think I’m still grieving that a little bit. 

But the stronger feeling I had, and have had every year for the past several years, is one of just…loneliness. 

I don’t know how to write about this without feeling profoundly sorry for myself, and worrying about sounding profoundly pitiful. I’m sharing it all anyway because one, writing about things helps me untangle them, and two, maybe someone can relate, or has words of advice or affirmation, or…something. 

I’ve had fairly significant social anxiety throughout my entire life. I have had phases where I’ve jumped fearlessly into social situations. And doing so demanded a lot of me, but it was doable. I now understand that what it demanded was masking, because I’m autistic, and it was doable because I had a lot more resources. And nowadays, I have far fewer spoons* with which to mask. There are a lot of things causing that lack of spoons—it’s age, it’s trauma, it’s capitalism, it’s living physically far away from so many of the people I’m closest to. 

For much of my life, I’ve been a part of social structures that automatically gave me connection on my birthday. I lived with or close to family, or I had a spouse, or I was part of a close-knit and active social group because I was in college and that’s what my college experience was like. 

But nowadays, my family is spread far and wide, and I don’t have a spouse, and while I have friends, many of them live far away now, and I don’t have one “friend group.” And we’re mostly “real grownups” now, with jobs and kids and not as much free time in our social calendars. 

So it means that every year on my birthday, when all I want is time with loved ones, it feels…out of reach. And because of my social anxiety and my autism and my abandonment trauma, reaching out and asking for connection feels to me like jumping out of an airplane. 

For my allistic (non-autistic) friends, or those who don’t experience anxiety or “rejection dysphoria,” this may sound absurd. It may sound like I’m describing something very simple as extremely difficult. But that’s just where my nervous system and psyche is right now. I’m working on it in therapy, and we’re making progress, but I may never be “over” my social anxiety just because of the way my brain is permanently wired. 

Here’s another metaphor. If your arm is working fine, lifting a gallon of milk is no problem. You do it without even thinking about it. But if your arm is broken, lifting a gallon of milk takes a lot more care. You may even need help to do it or you’ll make your injury worse. 

Because of my autism, my arm is never going to be at 100% when it comes to lifting gallons of milk. And my arm isn’t fully BROKEN, but there are some old wounds that haven’t quite healed. So lifting a gallon of milk by myself (e.g. putting together a birthday party for myself with friends) feels challenging at best and dangerous at worst. 

So for the past few years, while I’ve been stuck in the airplane with the door open, hearing loved ones far below, I’ve done the best I could to make the airplane as enjoyable as possible. I get a massage, and/or a new tattoo, and/or go to a play or do an improv show. I read the texts and social media messages and feel grateful for them. I take myself out to eat. 

But this year, it feels worth acknowledging that it’s not quite what I ACTUALLY WANT. The best birthday I’ve had in recent years was one where I had brunch with a significant other, got a massage, went to a play, and then sat and talked with old close friends in a car for hours and hours. That perfect birthday included the things I can do myself and usually do (massage, a play), but it also includes things that nowadays would demand jumping out of an airplane, or lifting a gallon of milk with my weak-ass arms. 

I don’t know why my birthday is when this comes up for me. Maybe I have a strong sense of “should” because of all of the cultural things associated with birthdays. I spent a lot of this last birthday “shoulding” all over myself. I should be married with children by now. I should be more established in my career. I should host a birthday party. I should have a significant other. I should have an established friend group. I should ask for what I want. I should be strong enough to lift this gallon of milk. I should be brave enough to jump out of this plane. 

I heard recently that when you are using the word “should” with yourself, you can try replacing it with “want” or “need” to see if it’s still true. If you’re saying “It’s a nice day, I should sit outside” you can try saying “I need to sit outside” or “I want to sit outside.” And if you don’t actually want or need to sit outside, then don’t do it. I think the majority of the tension I feel around my “shoulds” are because some of them are things I actually WANT, but the things I NEED to do in order to get what I want have some significant barriers for me right now. 

I’m not sure how to conclude this. I want to clarify again that with therapy, I’m learning how to lift gallons of milk and jump out of airplanes. And part of me is worried that this blog will make me sound like I’m not grateful for the expressions of love I do receive. Maybe I’m just asking for a little compassion? For each other. For ourselves. Maybe this is just a reminder that yes, be kind, everyone is fighting some battle or other. Or maybe I just needed to untangle this, and have it be witnessed. 

Anyway. 

Here’s to learning to sky dive, and being gentle with yourself when you’re not able to jump yet. 

* Spoons refers to the “spoonie” metaphor, where those with chronic illnesses or nervous system diagnoses or neurodivergence have a limited number of spoons per day, and each task takes a certain number of spoons.