Today I turn 27. Or, as a friend of mine put it, today marks the twenty-seventh anniversary of autonomous existence from my mother’s womb (good one, Peter).

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As I said in my last post, I feel as though I’ve aged at least 10 years since my last birthday, if not more. For the most part, this is due to my father’s illness, but also to the decisions I’ve made around that reality and the very sobering experience of finding a stable, honest, lasting relationship.

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Due to one thing or another, I have shed a great deal of immaturity in the past year, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I clung to that immaturity as the last vestige of my childhood, figuring that if I didn’t act grown up, perhaps I wouldn’t actually have to grow up.

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Yeah, right. That lasted until the first time I had to hold onto my father’s hand to keep him from pulling the IV out of his arm.

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And now where am I? I am suddenly someone who is planning a wedding, making guest lists and picking dates. I am someone to whom my mom turns for advice, friendship, and support. And I am someone who reminds my little brother that sometimes you have to put other people before your own self-interest.

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In other words, despite my best efforts, I am an adult. It’s a brave new world.

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