My 20 Somethings Didn’t Kill Me

BY: Kiana Blake-Chung

“Instead of making a ‘30 things I learned before 30’ list like some people do, you should make a ‘30 traumas I’ve suffered before 30’ list instead.”My sister, Blake and I were laughing on FaceTime about the disappointment that has thus far been my 30th birthday trip to Belize.

“I think that would render my memoir useless.” I replied. It’d be easier to write for sure. I’m currently reading a memoir by a woman with BPD who essentially wrote the whole book in lists and poetry. As an avid lover of lists myself, I adore the format.

2nd to last page of The Way She Feels by Courtney Cook.

When I think about the hypothetical list of traumas I imagine a list of validation that I can shove under the noses of those who love me and say “Now do you see why I’m like this? Aren’t these reasons enough to end my suffering? Surely after reading this list you can’t begrudge me my choices.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the list. In the aforementioned book the author shared about her privileged life (not to discredit her traumatic birth and the subsequent pain she experienced as an infant that may have had a hand in her diagnosis years later) and how despite her charmed existence on paper she’s always emotionally struggled.

As an individual who is always trying to make sense and come to terms with the “why”s of life, I am grateful that I can point to a lengthy list of tangible reasons to explain away such a volatile emotional state. I can point to the handful of deferred dreams as ammunition for my frustration and discontentment with life. At times I think if I only had the success I envisioned in one area then I’d be content waiting on the rest. My greatest fear is the possibility of having everything I’ve ever wanted and still being just as miserable as I am now.

She’s seen enough.

When I was 23 in the psych ward after my first attempt I envisioned my 30s, as far off as they seemed, and daydreamed about the ways in which things would get better. I told myself I could make it to my Jesus year. Even His ministry didn’t really get started until 30. Everything would begin to turn at that point and if it didn’t I’d peace out at the same age as my savior.

When I turned 28 for some reason it was like the gates of Hell opened at the foot of my bed and unleashed everything they could. I was close to giving in then, too. I gave myself permission to take 33 off the table, that was entirely too long to wait. I told myself I could make it to 30 and I’d celebrate with my loved ones in Paris, the city I’d dreamed of visiting since I was 8 years old. I’d stay at the fancy hotel my French teacher showed us in high school and it would be the pinnacle of a dream come true. When I was once again in the depths of agony last September, I carted myself off to the hospital because I absolutely had to make it to my 30th  birthday. I figured the experience would be so life giving and healing I’d be able to tack on a few years to my self imposed death sentence.

This year the plans for my Parisian birthday Renaissance fell apart and when I found myself in that familiar ditch this September I gave myself permission to stay. There was no promise of a dream vacation to renew my spirits and so I allowed myself to give in to that relentless call and prepared my demise.

The only reason I’m still here and didn’t die in September is because I got tickets to see Tom Hiddleston at Comic-Con out of the blue and thought it would be worth sticking around long enough to meet him finally. Even though Comic-Con wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, by then I’d solidified plans to pivot to a solo Belizean vacation that I was hopeful would rejuvenate me in unexpected ways.

Me with Tom Hiddleston in October at Comic-Con which was wonderful but also underwhelming.

So my disappointment at flight delays, waking up on my first day of vacation sick(!), rainy days and the tours I wanted to experience being cancelled due to unsafe conditions just feels like the punchline in the long cosmic joke that’s been my life for the last 29 years.

Agreed.

The relief I felt in September knowing death was imminent and inevitable has turned to agitation at every additional inconvenience once again. Agitation because somewhere along the line optimism pushed its way forth once again when I bought a 2024 planner. I swear I must have blacked out in the Michaels because I was astonished when I unpacked it that night. Since when was 2024 back on the table?

My heart has once again began to beat with what-ifs. What if everything turns around the second I turn 30? What if I somehow land a book deal soon? What if my blog takes off and brings exponential growth? What if none of that happens and yet I still get a lengthy reprieve from depression long enough to remind myself what life looks like without it?

The mirror having the affirmation STRONG on it whilst being broken 100% encapsulates how I feel.

Every further disappointment that befalls me continuously chips away at the flimsy armor of optimism doing its best to shield my mind from a point of no return. The last 10 years especially have not given me enough hope that a turn around is possible in the next ten.

I need life to surprise me, quickly, because to keep it 100 with you, I can’t see a future beyond my next half birthday. You don’t have to tell me happy birthday today, but you should say a prayer that you can tell me happy birthday next year.

Felt.