A tough year
Every year by April, you write a post saying this has been a better year than the last. And February or so next year, you write a post saying the past year was the most difficult year you have had. When it became a cycle, you realise that as you age life only gets tougher. In fact, when you are particularly depressed, life is actually just a series of moments that look forward to life becoming easier. Then a year passes and you are making more money but you are also spending that much more, so there's no real money for you to save, as your parents have been telling you to and that is just terrible. Because you are a girl and you can never leave the home you grew up in, figuratively. If you have had great parents, you can rarely ever say, I don't care, I am happy with who I am. So you go past a year thinking, damn, that was one difficult year. And then another year goes by and you've have the worst marriage in the history of bad marriage days and your think, wow, I'd rather have little or no money than this and anyway, why did I get married. The next year peeks in and you say, you know what, this is MY year and no one is going to ruin it for me. And you make plans and lists and you are so focused and driven and convinced that everyone around you wants to marry you because wow, you have just inspired everyone with your resolve to write your book lose weight make more money travel more places tweet less sleep more and be happy. February comes around and everything about an approaching spring pisses you off, you have dark circles from not sleeping enough, your body isn't beautiful, you've been breaking your resolutions like dawn and man, life is tough. Now you stay away from your friends because you don't want their pity. But you forget they don't pity you. All they have time for is a quick call and a prayer once a month, when they think of you. And because it is possible and okay to lend a shoulder online, they chat with you as you pour you woes on like syrup. They respond appropriately, but what is there to say because they have a deadline to meet and they still love you and send you a big hug. Send you a hug. Prayer hug deadline. That is enough. Your birthday month arrives and you think, ah another year older, let me take stock. What have you achieved you ask, and when you get answers you don't like you make everything look like an achievement because hey, you are just human and how much can you do, right? Then you think of Hedy Lamar and the woman who comes to cook and clean your house and you feel small like pebbles. Then you justify to yourself that they are them and you are you and the two can never be the same. And that's your lying, snivelling way out because there's no way to go. Only truth or lies and right now the lie comforts. So you want to kill yourself, painlessly and with as little trouble as possible because you do not want to inconvenience anyone in death, and you wonder if you should send off your passwords to someone who really cares and who are not your parents your husband. You think of the promises that you leave unfulfilled, the restaurants you really wanted to eat at but didn't take the time to, the vacations you planned but were too broke to go on. Maybe spirits can do all that, you think and hope everyone who depends on you will not be disappointed and that they have a good photograph of you to turn to when they know of your death. And a memory. You can't decide on the method of suicide and the moment passes. You judge yourself. Another tough year you say and it is tough. You know it and the people around you see it. And guess what, they judge you. But guess what's worse, you judge yourself worse. The worst. Then you start peddling furiously because you don't want to judge but you want life to be easier, and you want to be saner employed taken care of cherished independent happy and that's nowhere in sight. So you get off the cycle and realise it hasn't gotten you anywhere. You were peddling in the same place all this time and your goal seemed to be moving all the time, farther and farther away till winter came and your visibility got so bad that you couldn't see your destination any more. So you get off the cycle and found it was still summer where you started because you haven't moved. Only your legs got stronger. Your destination is ahead of you, far away, and you have strong legs. Maybe you will walk now. The year seems easier now that you are walking, the pace letting you see that life will always be difficult, that as long as you want to be anywhere but here life will be difficult. But if you don't want what is out there, how do you get more. Then you think you shouldn't want more because thankfulness and gratitude. Fuck gratitude. There's enough of that around among happy people. And they say that's the key to their happiness. Or at least that's what all the Facebook posts will have you believe. You get tired of the glamorous faces of your friends taking pictures on all their travels and there's a bit of envy too. And of all the great places they eat at, the lives they live online, the you call yourself pathetic because you are sitting there looking at their lives and the last time you had a holiday was whoa, god knows when. And you don't even believe in a god and now you feel the sudden politically correct need to not say god's name in vain. You need to find another name or word that you can use while you exclaim but you feel stupid, replacing such a small irrelevant word with another deliberate one and giving it meaning, because then you'll need to find and replace it in every other context and you can't think of a better word to use when you orgasm that's not pretentious because if you can't be you at least when you are having sex then you should have just found a method of suicide long ago when you thought about and done it. Because who are you if not you when your clothes are of. You judge yourself again because you have clothes and some people don't, you have sex and there are kids getting raped and you haven't done a thing about it, not even outraged because you are just so full of sadness for everything that nothing is enough. All you can do is fix yourself so you can fix other things. You start to plan and your difficult little life gets in the way, and dude, what a tough fucking year.