The opposite of utopia

I have not been writing much (or at all) since my grandfather’s death in May last year. It has been almost a year since then and I should have at least pulled myself together enough to get on with life. Because, you know, time waits for no man or woman. Come May this year, I’ll be twenty-seven, and I’m already feeling stress. Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one and even twenty-five now seem so far back in my past. I can barely remember what I was doing during those milestones. The death of a close one has really brought home the fact that I need to do something about my life before it’s too late as well.

Everything is easier said than done though. What I want to achieve sounds very simple: long-term happiness, but so far it has been a daunting task that I am still struggling with. There have been so many horrible obstacles and unbelievable challenges that I am half-convinced that my goal is never going to be attainable. Has my grandfather’s death been the catalyst for all the horrors that happened? Or was he the shield against them while he was alive?

I really have no idea now.

Everything seems to be falling apart no matter how what I tried to do. I tried my best to be happy. I left a job that I hated and that was the only thing that I succeeded in making me happier. I couldn’t trust most people close to my heart. I only realised how hard I took their betrayals when I found my tears in alcohol (that’s a nice way of saying that I cried after getting drunk). In vino veritas, they say and how right they were. There was so much unhappiness simmering and then rising to the surface that it probably could choke someone to death on it.

I am not exceptionally brave and the unknown is a scary thing to me. Habit and a fear of the unknown have imprisoned me in a cycle of unhappiness where I could not bring myself to cut away the source because it is something familiar and I am afraid of losing that familiarity.

My birthday is in May and a mere three days after my grandfather’s first death anniversary. Needless to say, I probably won’t feel up to celebrating. However, I am determined to turn things around before then. One year is too long to wallow in such despair and I refuse to continue doing so any longer. It will be hard but I will have to toughen myself up to say ‘this is enough’ to all the misery that people are trying to unload on me. I refuse to be unhappy because of such unworthy people.

Three months, that is enough time, isn’t it?