A formula for joy

My ninth birthday was the day I got a puppy from the shelter. I was captivated by a bowlegged tiny Chihuahua with wiry hair and ears that seemed to grow from his neck. The pound contained a variety of stunning dogs, including huskies, German shepherds, elegant bluenose pit bulls, and even a redbone hound.

His hair was coarse and he had a musty corn chip aroma. Additionally, he consumed flies by grabbing them from the sky, like an awkward frog.

Alex was the name I gave him.

Those golden years were spent on our five acres of land. The property's hollow amid a natural hedge was my favourite area. The ideal hiding spot, with its dense, perilous interlock of branches that prevented anybody from entering the depression unless by a secret tunnel.

That night, I led Alex inside the hedge. What comes to me is the way the sunshine filtered through the foliage and blossoms, transforming the area into a kaleidoscope of warm coppery light and gentle brown shadows. In the faint light, my small dog's eyes gleamed like amber as he gazed up at me.

He finally slept off as I stroked him. My plan was to throw him off his game, so I slithered out of the hole and yelled out his name.

He shrieked in terror and began frantically yanking at the insurmountable branches.

He felt a sudden, crushing wave of fear. Once again, I ducked behind the hedge. Indelible in my recollection is the expression on his face: a mix of fear and delight, his eyes wide with emotion.

From the moment I laid him down to sleep, that expression consumed me.

I was stuck with him for eighteen years, and I endured four of those years on medication for terrible heart problems. He had finally had enough of the agony.

Still, he sensed trouble. He was already terrified, and my sobbing only made him more so. He was constantly frightened by tears.

I made an effort to dispel the recollection of the first night in the hedge and the manner in which I had startled him. It was obvious why I was unable to do so. By putting him to sleep, I had once again caged him.

Except that I couldn't keep him at my side this time.

He represented my last hope. Similar to how a guy who is drowning feels a wave take his life vest, I could feel him vanishing before my eyes.

My puppy was neither the beginning nor the end of my tendency to be a whimp. Come get my dad. At that time, he had spent years in a nursing facility. His Alzheimer's disease progressed rapidly. The drop was sharp and quick. Pancreatic cancer, which is both fatal and unbearably painful, was added insult to injury.

That is when I began to cut down on my visits. I was unable to do it to him, not because I avoided seeing him, but because I just did not want to. Picture this: you're in excruciating agony, you have no idea who or what you are, and the only person who has been to see you is a gaunt stranger who starts crying at the sight of you.

Whenever I paid him a visit, I really frightened him. His confused and terrible days were intensified because of me. Guarded his meagre tranquilly.

Therefore, I stopped.

I had planned to sit with him until the very end, when he would be so drowsy from the drugs that he wouldn't wake up to find me crying into his hands. But I was absent at the time of his passing. I was in the doctor's office, trying to make sense of the news that I would also be ill forever.

My dad was in my dream that night. Screaming for rescue, he got ensnared in the hedge. For what seemed like hours, I attempted to point out the exit, but he could not see me. It was as if I were invisible to him. He thought he was the only one there. It was my fault, I knew it in that unstoppable dream logic.

It was a sobbing fit when I awoke.

I was satisfied. I was fed up.

I'm neither ignorant or gullible. Living is like riding a wave. Unfortunately, some of us do really call a stormy coast home.

Even I was aware of this.

I needed a break, however. There was a little period of time when I was completely happy.

My next move was to peruse the web in search of hypnotic ASMR or a guided imagery approach. At least for a short period of time, anything to make the world a more cheerful place.

You name it, I did anything. It was all in vain. The search was intoxicating in and of itself, so I persisted in looking, scouring ever-weirder websites far into the night. Though it may divert your attention, it is not a pleasant environment.

I came upon a long-lost Geocities page titled: during the middle of the sixth night.

A formula for joy

Naturally, I connected.

Have you had enough of feeling terrible? Looking to lift your spirits? So, I am happy to report some wonderful news to you. An effective RECIPE FOR HAPPINESS was bestowed to me by a friend.

The Formula Comprises of TWO Steps

A fairly typical honey cake recipe followed, however I was a little concerned about the final step:

Combine all of the ingredients in a glass bowl and spit them out.

Allow precisely twenty minutes of cooking time at your preferred temperature.

Saw into halves. Half of it should be placed outside your exit. Finish off the other half while you're doing...

Next up!

Think of a pleasant memory and try to relax.

Just picture the person that brightens your day.

Arrange an ideal day

Before you turn in for the night, plan your ideal day.

Your sadness will go away if you do this!

It raised a grin on my face. Reminiscing about better times while eating cake wasn't terrible advise. Therefore, I attempted it. In fact, I spilt some cake batter.

Half of the cake, once I sliced it, went on the porch. As the full moon cast a soft silver light, steam tendrils swirled into the night.

To finish up the last half, I cuddled up on the sofa. The first night in the hollow will always be a wonderful memory of my small puppy, bathed in the gentle light of the setting sun.

When asked to choose someone who brought me joy, I chose my dad.

Next, I plotted out an ideal day. Or more accurately, I recalled it.

My first serious work had just begun, and I was still living at home with my parents. I had a productive day at the office. As we pulled into the driveway, my dog wiggled and danced as if we hadn't seen each other in years. My mom was playing guitar while my dad rattled off jokes and made supper. That evening, rain fell. As the downpour intensified, we stepped out to the porch to see the swaying palm palms. In the midst of the rumbling thunder, I rescued my frightened puppy and hugged him close.

Our dessert of choice was ice cream and brownies. After that, I got my dog tucked up for the night and read a book till I went to sleep.

I thought I could feel him there as I slipped off to sleep, grinning at the recollection, all warm and shockingly heavy, stretching languidly over my toes.

By the time I came to, the cosy mass had moved to my pillow.

I couldn't even recognise the awful, agonising hope that was coursing through my veins.

My eyes sprang open.

A little, dried puddle of blood rested on my pillow. A strange mixture of fuzzy and filthy, with dangling grey filaments that glistened in the sunlight. Over a horrifying snout—broken and gushing with an unlikely cluster of human teeth—glinted three milky eyes.

It grinned and blinked, its eyes slightly apart from each other, clicking gently open and shut. Its jaws were drooling with blood. Its icy paws landed on my cheeks.

It then leaned its beak down over my and took a deep breath.

It appeared like my whole body—breath, blood, and all—was making its way up my oesophagus. Almost as if God were sucking my intestines out of a straw.

As the terrible feeling of being choked worsened, I shook my head wildly. My emotions, as well as my intestines and memories (really, recollections of half-forgotten horrors), were bubbling to the surface. Brutal flashbacks of my ailing father. As the rain pounded down relentlessly, my mother was last seen getting ready for work and placing a bowl of muesli on the counter. And my dog, my poor, helpless dog, attempting to evade the needle right up to the finish.

Screaming, I reached into the monster's gaping maw. I thought it would just take flight, but instead it grew: a fuzzy flesh balloon expanding, expanding, expanding —

Its release came suddenly.

I staggered backwards, puking. A gigantic bulging eye the size of a German Shepherd, the creature only grinned. The beautiful white light of dawn illuminated the scene as it seeped through the window.

Anger was building up in my chest for no apparent reason, and it was becoming worse by the second.

"Are," it croaked before making a burp sound.

I wanted to suffocate it, to bury my arms in its hideous, bloated corpse, and —

"Are you upset?"It inquired.

I felt a whirlwind of emotions, including anger, disgust, scorn, and even laughter. Terrible, crippling, and all-consuming.

“No. "You don't feel sad," it said, prodding its tummy with an absurdly little palm. "Here it is."

After what seemed like an eternity, I came to the realisation that this monstrosity hadn't consumed my internal organs.

Feelings were shredded.

Feeling fine. Feeling fine. Gone are the painful recollections. Yes, fury and bewilderment. But behind it, there was a contented serenity that was almost blissful.

I stepped out for a drive, leaving it in my bedroom all by itself.

"What are you?" I inquired upon my return.”

"A unique delight," it responded.

I willingly admitted myself to a hospital after concluding that I had experienced a psychotic episode. They didn't find anything incorrect after two days of evaluations. I don't see why. I was perfectly balanced, enjoying an oddly tranquil state of mind.

The monster was already in my bed when I returned home. Jolly, degrading roundness had shrivelled to skeleton size. Ugh, that was so ugly. Died of starvation.

"I require," it suddenly said. "I require it, lest you endure it once more."

Coming back to a life of sadness and loss was unbearable; I didn't know how I had made it through the first time, and I didn't think I could.

I opened my lips and knelt down near the bed. The beast chewed on it. Like my insides were stuffing up my windpipe, the painful feeling of a bottleneck reappeared. Along with it came a flood of emotions and memories, including the wrath I felt at first seeing the monster, disgust at its hideousness, and dread of becoming insane. Also, my elderly greyhound is following me around with glee. As he spoke my name one more time last night from his hospital bed, my father smiled apprehensively. And much more beyond that -

I gasped and yanked away. Back to its chubby, monstrous self, the monster grinned.

In the days that followed, we settled into a pattern. Took care of business, went to doctor's appointments, and even dropped by friends' houses. I returned home and surrendered to the monster's grasp on my bad emotions. An unpleasant customer while on the clock? Taken away and left behind before the realisation could set in. One who refuses to look someone in the eyes? I didn't really worry since my pet monster would handle it just as he handled everything else.

What it did was strip unpleasant things of their emotions, vitality, and agony. For a few weeks it erased everything; I had a vague idea that horrible things happened every day, but I couldn't put a face to it.

By the end of the year, the monster had eliminated triggers altogether; for example, I no longer bawled whenever I saw my dog's bed. Photos of my parents didn't really interest me, but I would often glance at them, avoiding the faces and locations that had just broken my heart.

That tranquil joy became stronger throughout. Floating through life in a delightful fog of serenity was my experience. Work became easier for me. My boss began mentioning a promotion to me because I was so resolute and unflappable. Once again, my friends could gaze at me. To top it all off, I felt comfortable enough to contact them after all these months.

I remembered how long it had been since I had reviewed my picture collection as I drove home from work one day. Not that I really gave a hoot. However, it deviated. There was nothing else to do, and those things stopped hurting. I say, why not have a look?

Upon returning home, I dutifully knelt down. Now the size of a horse, the monstrosity curved and twisted like a mutant spider, and it clamped its jaws down on me. I'd grow to love the journey. Although it was familiar, it was unsettling and painful. What followed was a consistent state of joy for me: calm, emptiness, and warmth.

As soon as it was over, I went to go through my mother's picture book.

I started to notice that no one was familiar after a time. I thought I recalled seeing them.

However, they slipped my mind.

Everyone involved in this photographic story was a stranger, including the stocky guy whose hair was wavy like mine, the fit lady whose smile was similar to mine, and the many others.

I came upon an image of my 10-year-old self embracing a dishevelled, domesticated Chihuahua. The spectres of long-gone memories pricked at my mind, pleading with me to recall and understand.

At long last, it hit me: I had lost something important.

For some reason, I had an emotional investment. I was filled with joy. Peaceful. Living was easy for me. Everything went well.

My ego got in the way, however. Plus, the thought that the creature having stolen so much bothered me. How could one define contentment and emptiness? The thought of being alone was terrifying to me. I wanted to be satisfied.

My decision to make a change was the result of many days of contemplation.

I stayed home and did some research after calling off work and cancelling some much-needed doctor's appointments.

Tell me what you're up to."What do you want?" the monstrous shape said.

"Searching for some unique recipes," I said, flashing a generic grin.

I finally located the first recipe after seven days of searching. There was an additional entry towards the page's footer:

The formula for misery

The words were underneath.

You should not, but it is up to you. So here is where you may destroy happiness if you are truly stupid.

Follow the a fore mentioned INSTRUCTIONS to mix the cake batter.

Slash your palm and let the blood seep into the batter.

For the cake, follow the steps outlined above.

Halve the cake.

Part with half for your joy, and savour the other half.

Sadly, here is where it gets worse!

Keep in mind the pleasant recollection you reflected over.

Keep the memory of the one who brought you joy close.

Always keep in mind that ideal day

Pick one to set aside, OR

Decline to ever experience joy again

Or, even better, don't ruin your joy by destroying it.

I suffered for days.

As he swiftly tripled in size, my monster—my delight, my happiness—persisted in draining my agony, doubt, and worry.

I got down to the wire and made a call.

Rather than forget my parents or my dog, I would choose to endure agony indefinitely.

I proceeded as directed, making a delicious honey cake that was poisoned with blood rather than saliva. After halving the cake, I presented it to my monster.

I braced myself for the worst, hoping for a violent altercation that would crush my lifeless body into the floor.

"What is that?" the monstrous creature said with a smirk, its round, flat eyes riveted on the blood cake.

"Just for you." I choked as I said it, but the beast was too engrossed in the cake to hear me.

It parted its lips and said, "I'm grateful."

As I gingerly put the cake onto its tongue, it excitedly nibbled and then shrivelled, revealing ragged rolls of empty flesh resting on its bones and fat, hard sides that had caved in.

My stomach and chest churned with pain, fluttering and seething. My spine tingled with shivers. The monster that had bestowed upon me its warm, even-keeled serenity withered away, leaving behind icy emptiness.

By the time the monster had shrunk to a flat, boneless ball of dusty fur, I was on my knees, crying. Memories had come rushing back, crushing me, making me gasp for air. They were pressing down on me, as if they were going to burst forth from within, immobilising me. I couldn't even fathom the thought of moving.

Laying there hurt all I could do.

Someone informed me after my dad passed away that pain is a fugue that will eventually break apart and make way for happiness again, like a nightmare gives way to the morning. However, in my experience, the opposite is true. There is no fugue; rather, sorrow is acute, devastating, painfully present, and at times, there is no way out.

I feel like the world is punishing me for those few months of stolen quiet. It's horrible. Sometimes I wonder if I made the wrong decision. The recipe writer was correct. I suffer every day, more than before.

On the other hand, thoughts of my parents come flooding back. I see our idyllic day, complete with music, corny jokes, and warm, driving rain.

Warm, coppery shadows bring back memories of my dog.

I am OK, even if it hurts.