Break on Through to the Other Side

So. We're here again. The annual 'I'm growing a year older tomorrow' post. I hate this fucking day. This entire fucking week, as a matter of fact. 

I turn 29 now. I am older, sadder, fatter, uglier, unhappier, more incomplete, less content. And less young. Why do people celebrate birthdays? I mean leave aside my obvious mother and father issues, my utter hatred for my birthday; why do people celebrate growing closer to death without having achieved anything good? Why am I the anomaly for hating this day? More people should hate their birthdays with a passion. Or is bloody everyone else so well adjusted?

What's more, this has been a truly awful year. My grandfather died, I went through a serious bout of depression, my uncle died and my relationship with my best friend has deteriorated to the worst it has ever been. Another shitty, shitty year. Another year of reasons to be unhappy. 

And worst of all, I am still all alone. Two of my close friends both made giant strides in their professional lives alongside me this year. And in the same year, they also moved forward personally in significant ways. I am still here. Still the same. No forward movement. Calcifying in this unhappy place until I won't ever be able to break on through to the other side. I can hear the desperation in my mother's voice every time she calls. Literally, every time she calls. She's terrified for me.

So here's the thing, no surprises here. I hate this day. I loathe it with the passion of a thousand burning whatevers. I'm also really beginning to hate myself.

Less Like a Whole

I've been through worse. Objectively speaking, without any sentimentality or any intent to lionize the sufferings in my life, I have been through far worse.

But this pain does not seem to dissipate. Somehow, all that other sorrow cleared. This, however, clings to me and surrounds in waves of despair that come unbidden at the oddest of times. And unlike the crests and troughs of emotion that even I experience in teenage, there is no sharp high or desperate low. There is just a persistent sadness that has permeated my life.

Today is my Thatha's birthday. For the first time in my life, when I woke up on the morning of the 6th of October, my first thought wasn't "I have to wish Thatha" but "Thatha is not here anymore".

I loved my grandfather, just as surely as everyone loves their grandfather. My relationship with him was very special to me, as I am certain that everyone's relationship with their loved ones are to them. Despite all the rationalization I am capable of, I cannot seem to reason the pain of this loss away. On the 20th of this month, I will have spent an entire year without him here. That is incomprehensible to me. Even more difficult to grasp is why I am still so very sad without my Thatha. 

Grown Woman

I am an adult, and as such, I make most decisions for myself. I was under the mistaken belief that this was the case with all adults. It appears I was wrong, and how.

My biggest source of frustration at present in life is the alarming frequency with which grown men and women are unable to use their discretion, and really basic fucking common sense, to make the simplest of decisions. I understand seeking the counsel of trusted others on matters of significance or enormity. I do NOT understand requiring my input on which shoes to pack on a short trip. 

Therein lies the issue. My irritation springs not from the idea that these seemingly sentient adults would need constant direction at all, but that they all seem to be seeking it from me. 

Let me be clear. I don't care where you put the milk powder once you open a new sachet in the office. I don't know whether you should put your socks in with your new shoes in the first suitcase of the second. I don't care if you want to put almonds rather than pistachios in your breakfast oats. I just don't care. 

Maybe I'm so controlling and anal-retentive that I don't see the value in asking other people's opinions on what I think to be matters of personal preference. Or maybe the problem is that I simply don't like my time being incessantly interrupted by what i deem to be meaningless questions. 

You're an adult. Figure it the fuck out. How hard is to decide which brown dress YOU like and want to wear to a dinner which I am not even attending?And how is it that almost every single adult in my radar seems to be afflicted with this ailment?

So here's the thing. Stop. Make your own decisions. Stop asking me. Stop expecting me to care. Stop. Just bloody stop.