A Sorta Fairytale

Remember that time when we were younger? When we were too little and carefree to think of all life’s worries? When our biggest fear in life come birthday-time is not receiving the present that we hoped for all year long? Whether we are getting that spanking new toy that will make us the envy of the kids in the neighborhood, or we are, by dint of cosmic joke, bound to receive (again) that despicable snake and ladders set that we perpetually receive on an annual basis?

As kids, we hope for the coming of the next year. Adulthood is something we are dying to reach. We were too bold and brazen to decide, as such an early age, what we wanted to become when we grow old. And as far as I could recall, never in my wildest dream have I told myself that I wanted to become a nurse when I was that young.

By a sudden twist of fate, the image of birthdays being shiny and hopeful turned into something dreaded and scary. That was when we learned that growing up is never a joyful passage of time and memories but a ruthless monster devouring our hopes and dreams. Time has become our enemy. And birthdays, an event we associate with aging and sorrow.



I started asking myself: is this the memory I am going to imprint in my life as I grow older?

Or can I, for one, be like that child again, and celebrate my birthday the way it was supposed to be commemorated?

For the past 5 years that I have been writing here at The Unbearable, my birthdays are marked by loneliness, hope, beginning, and sorrow, a psychologist could easily interpret as an unconscious guise of my inner bipolar self. In between my personal oscillations of using and abusing several drugs in the formulary, ranging from anti-depressants to minor tranquilizers, lucid intervals are always bliss. And I’m proud to say that for 3 years now, my body has become prescription- or recreational-drug-free, and my doses of Valium have been minimized to a great extent.

Why, then, am I feeling this melancholic?

I actually don’t know. Blaming my brain’s raphe nuclei and serotonin proves to be an effortless escape but I won’t digress. Maybe it’s the season, and it’s my Seasonal Affective Disorder talking, but I have always liked the rain, making the diagnosis very unlikely. I think the conclusion is that the problem lies within myself. And I therefore need not ask.

In a few hours, I will be turning 18. Plus 5.

A few years back, I was praying to the Lord to give me enough wisdom to help me decide what is right for me and act upon that in a prudent manner. A few months back I think I received the wisdom that I ultimately longed for. Last year, I was living a life. It might not be the “best” life I’m capable of living, but in my heart I know it’s the kind of life that I know I will never exchange for for all of eternity.

This time, I have only one prayer:

I will live my life.

And this time, I will live it well.

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Thank you for your unending support. This post is for single men (and women) everywhere, and one in particular... my very good friend Raymond, the eternal optimist, who always believes in love.