Today, I’m turning twenty-two years old.

As usual, I am incredibly grateful for having survived this long. I’m still shocked by how healthy and able I am, and how much more progress I’ve made in just the past six months. Well… to be honest, I’m shocked that I’m still here at all, all things considered. 

I’m starting to accept that the shock of me miraculously being alive, as healthy and able as I am, will probably never go away. So, I’ve shifted away from trying to “accept that I’ll be here for a long time”, to just learning how to live while being shocked that I’m… well… still alive, and exceptionally healthy for someone with a mile long list of genetic fuck-ups that really should’ve killed me (and nearly did many times) before my first birthday. 

However, as grateful as I am to still be alive, and as determined as I am to keep moving forward, I’m also filled with a myriad of mixed emotions I don’t even dare think about bringing up to the people around me (especially my family). Yes, I’m grateful and glad to be alive, and I have no desire to kick the bucket anytime soon, but I’m still scared shitless of the future. I’m still terrified of living, similarly to how most people my age are terrified of dying. I’m still incredibly lonely and struggle to connect to people my age, because there just seems to be a massive gap between myself and them, keeping us from connecting to each other in any meaningful way (what that gap is, I have no idea. I just know it’s there).

And, I must admit, I still occasionally miss the prospect of dying early from Cystic Fibrosis. After all, I spent my entire childhood (and roughly a year of my adulthood) preparing for that very thing. But, now? Now, things are so very different, for the better, of course. Yet, I still have very complicated feelings about being as old and healthy as I am. Complicated feelings I can’t even begin to express to the vast majority of people, but can’t just allow to fester within me, which is why I write them down and discuss them in therapy. 

Thankfully, as time goes on, I continue to get better at coping with the fact that I’m gonna keep celebrating my birthday for decades to come. Learning how to live has been extremely difficult, but I’m determined to master the art of living. I’m determined to find out what I’m truly capable of. I’m determined to learn how to create things in life and set long-term goals and aspirations. I’m doing my best to figure out how to bridge the social gap between myself and everyone else, so that I don’t feel so damn lonely and alone all the time. I’m working my ass off to overcome and heal all of my fears and insecurities, so that I can get on with life without spooking at my own damn shadow (which I still do, literally). 

The awesome thing is that I’ve made a lot of progress this past semester alone. I’m proud to announce that I’m no longer scared shitless of higher-level math. I’ve successfully grieved and worked through most of those shitty past experiences I had with frustrated, overworked, undereducated K-12 teachers that had no idea how to teach a student like me. I passed college algebra with flying colors (especially considering the class average grade was a 61%, and mine was an 86%), without burning myself out in the process. And, I’m already ready to return to school for the summer, where I’ll be taking on Art Appreciation and Intro to Philosophy (I decided not to sign up for creative writing, because I’m not about to write fiction to keep my GPA above a 3.0). 

While it’s okay and healthy to struggle emotionally on my birthday, I still have to celebrate all of the blessings, miracles, and wins that have gotten me to where I am today. As much as I like to argue with Him, I still recognize that God chose to keep me around. For what reason, I’m not sure. Whatever the reason is, I’m just grateful beyond words to be here; alive and well, strong and fit, making progress and learning lots each and every day. 

Yes, I’m still downright terrified of the future. I still have no fucking clue what I want to do with myself going forward. I still resent the mile-long list of genetic fuck-ups I was born with. I’m still very pissed off at God for all of the shit I dealt with growing up. I still have a lot to heal from and reconcile. I still have a lot to learn (including how to be nice to myself, because I’m often my biggest hater, and that’s not healthy), and a lot to overcome and cope with. 

But, I’m in a much better place than I was just a semester ago, and I hope to be in a much better place in a few months than I am now (and right now, I’m in a pretty damn good place). I’m sure as hell in a much better place today than I was around this time last year. And, that’s something to celebrate with a huge sushi lunch and a couple shots of sake. 

Again, I wish I could express these complicated feelings to everyone around me. However, I can’t. My family has been heavily traumatized by my health issues, and trying to get them to fully understand my perspective is… well… unproductive, for lack of better terms. At the same time, I don’t like to stifle the truth either. That truth being that, if not for numerous instances of Divine Intervention and massive recent leaps in medical science, I would be dead by now. The fact that I’m still here today, alive and well, honestly freaks me the hell out in ways I just can’t explain (but wish I could). 

Obviously, I’m very glad to still be alive. I just feel completely unprepared to live such a long, fruitful, and healthy life, and not just in a way most young adults feel. 

Unlike the majority of my peers, I didn’t expect to live very long. I know I’ve said that many, many times, but I say it because A) it’s true, and B) I still haven’t figured out how to fully express what I mean when I say, “It’s a miracle that I’m still alive.”