October’s almost here and I have no idea where my year went. Every time I’ve tried to raise this question, I’ve been deemed crazy. Seriously, where did my 2020 go?
I remember having it in January, from the day I woke up hungover from a New Year Eve’s party—which was awesome, by the way. I think I saw it in February when I was still hanging out with my friends and having impromptu dinners with them at the most random places. I have a strong feeling that I lost it somewhere during March, when the whole country came under COVID-19’s radar. I faintly remember the last day at office, chilling with my colleagues, bitching about our boss and all the people we never wanted to see again. Little did we know that we actually won’t see them or each other for the longest time.
Everything has been downhill ever since. I’m pretty sure March would know something about my missing year, but there’s no way I can go back and ask it. April was okay, I guess. Nothing happened. Literally the entire nation was under lockdown and everything came to a stand still, except work, of course. That never stops.
May was disastrous, so bad that it made me shiver during the day and took my sleep away at night. There was still no sign of my 2020. My father had been in the hospital since February and was now in the ICU. He had blood cancer, a rare and dangerous one, since 2017, which he faced head on and bravely. Everybody was praying for him to get better.
If May was bad, June was its dad (see what I did there). My dad turned 51 and then lost the battle to the cold illness. It was tough for everyone in the family. Even if we saw this happening in one of the 15 million realities, we still weren’t ready for it. I was so caught in all of this that I’d completely forgotten about my year. June took away my everything, probably also my year.
July and August were okay. It was during these months that I realised something was missing but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. I wondered for days and weeks, but got nowhere. So I decided that I was going to sleep. A lot. And not eat. Anything at all. Not even get up from my bed. My mom was really worried.
Then came September and I turned 23. By this time, I was aware that my year has been missing and it’s been missing for a while now. I set out to find it, and boy, was the process tough. I lost interest in work, lost sleep, lost my appetite, didn’t get out of bed, smoked and then slept a lot, broke down more than I should have and then decided to try therapy. Surely a professional would be able to help me.
I told her everything and she concluded that my year has been stolen. She thinks somebody took away my 2020 because they didn’t want me to have it, and she thinks that somebody’s me. I hid my year and got myself this shitty year because deep down, I thought I didn’t deserve a good year. Now, the only way I can get my year back is if I change the way I feel about myself and my life.
Maybe she’s not wrong. Maybe I did steal my own 2020, but I’m determined to get it back and be in control of it. I have three months left to make the most of it, and I’m not letting it go to waste.