Day 97

I get daily texts from caring people grilling me about my future plans. They want to know the immediate status of things and the direction in which I’m going. While I know that it comes from a place of concern, I hate it. It makes me feel like 97 days after Constance’s death I am behind schedule on figuring out what I’m going to do with the next decade of my life. I want to scream, “I don’t know. Stop asking.” Instead, I just ignore the inquiries.

I’m like one of those potluck stews where you slow cook whatever’s left over in the fridge. The only problem is that when you remove Constance, the only thing in my life is leftover soy sauce packets. I’m fearful of the commitment of procuring a slice of tofu for fears it is the wrong path.

In my youth, the endless possibilities in front of me naively seemed like a million yellow brick roads all leading to a magical, peaceful home. I was confident that my adulthood would be full of happiness, health, success, and love. I believed I would spend my life doing meaningful work and would somehow miraculously be rewarded by having a happy, healthy family. Now I know some paths are dead ends filled with endless heartache.

No one is dependent on me, so it really doesn’t matter anyway. I can spend the rest of my life homeless without a LinkedIn update to speak of. Who cares. I am as indifferent to my future as the universe is.