My life is a Joke

Chapter 2: The Art of Hiding Things From Myself

Some people lose things. And then there's me: the genius who hides everything so well... that even / can't find it again.

That day I needed an important document. Nothing dramatic, but the kind of paper that, if it disappears, your blood pressure goes up and your soul leaves our body. So I said my favorite responsible-adult phrase:

"I'm going to put it somewhere safe."

And that was the beginning of my downfall.

Days pass. I need the document. I go to the place where I swear I put it.

It's not there.

I check the second most logical place. Nothing.

Ten minutes later I'm talking to myself, but talking the way I talk when I'm already done with life:

"Where the hell did I put it? Don't mess with me. No way... where is it??"

And then the honesty hits me, late as always:

"This ALWAYS happens to me. Everything I put in a 'safe place' disappears"

I keep searching, already frustrated, and I drop my classic line:

"I can't be like this... the only reason I don't lose my head is because it's attached."

And I keep searching like an idiot:

- opening drawers I never use - checking bags that should be empty - lifting things that weigh more than my will to live - looking in places where it makes ZERO sense... but I look anyway

Mumbling under my breath:

"God... I make my own life harder."

After half an hour of chaos, sweat, and bad words, I finally find it.

Where?

ON TOP OF THE FRIDGE.

Yes. Up there. In that place where I NEVER put ANYTHING... But that day, for some reason, my brain said:

"This is a GREAT safe place, Lydia."

And there it was, sitting like the king of the world, while I stood below, hair messy, looking insane, saying:

"SERIOUSLY? WHO PUTS ANYTHING UP HERE?"

And the worst part? I grab it and say:

"Of course... safe place."

So safe that not even me, NASA, or the FBI could've found it without a ladder.

My life is like that: an eternal joke, written by me... and I keep falling for the same trick.

And the thing is... this isn't even the first time something like this happens to me. I wish I could say this was a one-time incident, a rare moment of chaos in an otherwise organized life. But no. This is a pattern. A lifestyle. A personality trait at this point.

I hide things from myself like I'm running a secret operation. I put stuff away with the confidence of a woman who believes she will absolutely remember later. Spoiler: I never do.

I've lost keys inside my own purse. I've lost my phone while holding it. I once lost my glasses... and I was wearing them. I wish I were joking, but my life refuses o let me be normal.

And every time it happens, I go through the same emotional stages:

1. Denial: "No, no, no... I JUST ad it. It has to be here."

2. Anger: "Who moved my stuff? WHO TOUCHED IT?"

3. Bargaining: "God, if you help me find this, I swear I'll get my life together." (A lie. A beautiful lie.)

4. Depression: "I'm tired. I can't live like this."

5. Acceptance: "It is what it is. I'm the problem."

And then, of course, the grand finale: I find the thing in the most ridiculous place imaginable, and I act shocked, like I wasn't the one who put it there.

Honestly, at this point, I think my brain has a mind of its own. It hides things from me for entertainment. It just sits there, laughing quietly, like it enjoys watching me lose my sanity.