This year has been one of the toughest ones of my life. Some months ago I suffered two major losses, and it doesn’t help that things weren’t going well before that either.
Covid had already pushed me to learn how to stop planning. After all the frustration and anxiety that Covid brought into life, I was less particular about how things turned out. There was always some level of wariness that went into making any plans in any sphere of my life. But, there were some things I was sure of. I was sure that I could rely on those things for a long time coming. Unfortunately, they turned out to be my plot twist.
I lost two extremely significant aspects of my identity. Aspects that had become integral to my definition of myself in the present and future. Therefore, an obvious and terrifying outcome of this was that I lost my hope.
I lost my optimism and excitement. My endless belief that good things were coming away. After all, when two of the best, most important things in my life were taken away, how much good could there actually be? Maybe all the realists/pessimists were right, you know? Maybe the good stuff in life was just the high before the fall. Maybe it didn’t last. Maybe the universe was not working in my favour. Maybe I already experienced the best I was gonna get and there was nothing I really had to look forward to anymore. And maybe it was time I got used to it.
I’ll be damned if this wasn’t the most depressing outlook younger me could have ever imagined. It also didn’t help that my whole life I had aspired to have that “backstory”. You know, like the ones superheroes or important characters have. The thing that disillusioned them and made them work their asses off to be who they are today. The thing that ignited the fire in them and made them unstoppable, passionate, angry, focused. The suffering that made them strong.
Well, here I was, I had reached my backstory. I guess one thing I didn’t account for was the actual feeling of it. It sucks. It was the worst thing I have ever experienced in my life. It felt like things should stop there because I shouldn’t have to go on after this pain. It was soul crushing. It made me terrified of ever going through it again and cynical of the future ever getting better. It made me angry, sad, lonely, heartbroken. It felt like my heart and soul were stripped bare, left raw and vulnerable.
I hate it. I wish it had never happened. That I could go back in time and undo all of the shit that caused this torture. The universe, however, is not so obliging. I am stuck with this backstory whether I want it or not.
I am well aware that time and again millions of people have endured this kind of pain and lived fulfilling or at least satisfactory lives. I am also aware that I probably will not feel this way forever. Does that change how I feel right now? No. Irrespective of what I know, it feels terrible. I can’t imagine expecting anyone, including myself, to not want to stop these feelings.
So, I did my best to get rid of them. I felt them. I avoided them. Expressed them. Tucked them away. Coloured them. Wrote them. Sung them. Sweated them. I protected myself from ever having to go through this pain again. Worked to ensure that I avoid repeating them at all costs. And yet, I hate these choices.
I hate that I felt like I lost a part of my excitement, my hope and most importantly, my joy. I hate that every laugh is followed by a feeling of disappointment or grief. I hate that I felt like I lost a part of me in all of this. So, in classic Me fashion, I have decided not to lose.
If there is one thing I can do about my backstory, it’s deciding who I am after. I am an optimist. I am the person who lights up at the most random or seemingly inconsequential things. It doesn’t take much to make me happy. I find joy in almost every aspect of my life and I refuse to stop doing that.
I didn’t get to choose what happened to me, but I refuse to allow it to take away any part of me.
