Lamenting My youth.

I turned 30 last week. Well near a week and a half ago, really.

It's shit.

I've spent 6 months dreading turning 30 - specifically ruminating over it late at night. The last day of my 20s I considered topping myself before I turned 30 (thinking only the good die young)... and the last week and a half basically in bed crying because...

I don't care what you say – I'm officially old, and depressed. Some reasons outlining why:

A. I can't read newspapers, media or magazines without feeling increasingly out of touch, old, ugly and generally wrong (the internet is a little more leveling).

B. I haven't felt creative in what seems like and is years – probably one of my biggest worries. I certainly don't have the motivation, drive, or crazy ideas I had when I was only 5 years younger.

C. I live in a foreign country with a few acquaintances, maybe 2 people (not including my significant other) I can stand listening to for more than 5 minutes at a time, they are both male, and you either have to pay more or less attention to them depending on how much they drink. Certainly no one I can have a in-depth conversation with, you know - those shorthand tete a tete's (I would say heart to heart or deep and meaningful, but it sounds so fucking gay) where historical references are understood because that person has known you half your life.

D. My skill base is limited. Fucking waaaaaaay limited.

and finally

E. I have no purpose in life... no really.

I'm worried I will always be a miserable bitch, cynical, pessimistic (if I was in a more optimistic mood I would call the trait 'realistic'), distrustful of human kind, and I know I will never engender enough enthusiasm to be a 'people person', because I am a snob in terms of intelligence, street sense, and a persons 'mettle', and most people suck. Sorry, but they really do. I figure this part of my personality will only become more twisted and engrained with time.

Kind of scary.

Actually, we could probably put it down to extremely low self esteem and a total sense of futility. One probably begets the other.

I vacillate between wanting to take up assassination as a full time job as humanity is up the shitter, or moving to a war torn and life endangering country to help those less fortunate than myself, to regain a sense of gratitude. Either way, they are semi suicidal.

I regret, yes REGRET, never being courageous enough to do what I wanted to earlier in life, and now it's certainly too late. Mad at myself, because as I have gotten older, I have found it really hard to let go of things. Particularly rage encountered when dealing with the mediocre people who drain my energy and fuck my life around. I really have to 'start to let things go' – the phrase itself, makes me feel like punching someone in the face... repeatedly.

I guess what I find somewhat discombobulating is that I was always a younger person in a group of adults. And if 'you're only as old as you feel'... well I've always felt old, but found it works better for you if you're 15 and nubile. Now I'm fucking 30, and I AM the adult, the Mrs whose body is encountering gravity, the woman that children move out of the way for, the fucking wife - not that I mind being a wife, but living in a sexpat community, they aren't highly thought of and the maid does all the housework.

There is such a generation gap between me and young people, I can't understand what the fuck is going on in their heads. Music sounds loud, and shit. Mainly because it is I suppose. Prefabricated crap. Fashion is regurgitated and style-less. Tween girls who dress like whores, young boys wearing eyeliner and crying in the dark... Fuck me, in my older age did I suddenly become conservative?

I dressed like a teenage whore, my daddy said so. I also attended Rocky Horror Picture Show on friday nights, where all the boys wore makeup and danced like trannies.

I can't deny it, I'm getting old. Every second passed is a second closer to death. More to the point, I have to figure out, again, what the fuck I am going to do with my life when I grow up. The horrid part is, I am already there.

So once I get over this month of crying in bed, because it's no good breaking into tears in public with your husband, people think he is beating you, and blubbering at shop counters in a emotionally repressed society just makes them talk faster in thai about you, nothing of which you can understand.

I figure somehow I will start again. On what, and how, who the fuck knows. But if the mediocre are at their best all the time... well I'm sure there is room for me somewhere.