2017 is taking its last, wheezy breaths, but I have things to say to it before it goes to that great calendar in the sky.
This was not the best year, and it was not the worst year, but in the same way a slap is slightly better than being punched in the face. But that's not exactly what I want to talk about, 2017. This letter is about reflection and growth and aligning my chakras or something, not icing my cheek.
Let me start by saying: I've observed most people sit in a strange, paradoxical spot between having more control than they take credit for and less control than they think they have. It's a great way to avoid looking at your flaws and mistakes, and an even better way to ensure you repeat them. Today, as I look back on the year, I find myself needing to be honest about what was outside my power, and what was really my own damn fault.
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My year: The abridged version.
My 2017 linchpin: I lost my best friend. Not in the Went to the Big Calendar in the Sky sense, but in the Turned Out to Be a Giant Douchenozzle sense. I'm not willing to take responsibility for someone else's innate awfulness, but I was a sucker for letting the hag back into my life after she burned me the first time. I hadn't even forgiven an earlier indiscretion before welcoming her back – but ten years was a lot to throw away, and I'm a hoarder. Sadly, my poor, sentimental judgment led to all that happened after.
I said yes to promotions in a job I already hated, because I wanted to feel accomplished, recognized, and valued. Work became a supplement for the self-esteem my friend had stripped from me, only like any opiate, that escape had diminishing returns. Forty hour weeks led to fifty, which led to sixty, and not a single one of those hours left me feeling accomplished, recognized, or valued. Why? Because surrogates are still surrogates, and an apple will never be an orange, no matter what colour you paint it. There grew a huge discrepancy between how much blood I was giving my job and how much validation was being given back, so I would give more blood, until all I really felt was weak and withered and scarred. I'm not going to insult myself by pretending the initial motivation behind my ambition somehow belittles how freaking hard I have worked, or that my job isn't a Soul Eater, but I made choices that led to this corner. I need to own that much.
With a job that paid in magic beans and glitter, and my best friend/room mate Tra-La-Laing off into the sunset and dumping me with 100% of our household expenses, my finances bombed. A-Bombed. My world became rent arrears, eviction notices, a credit card I'd avoided for thirty years, debt collectors – all those things that make you feel like a great steaming pile of failure. Thirty years old and I was looking through drawers and seat cushions for spare change.
The existential ineptitude I felt caused me to isolate myself from life even further. I actively ignored my friends, often not responding to them for days when they'd reach out to me; I let the already-present chasm between myself and my family widen; I let my house fall into disarray; and I went from playing a video game nearly every day to letting my games gather dust, because I didn't deserve to enjoy things when I was clearly failing at life. Even worse, I stopped writing, which had been my greatest passion since I'd learned to hold a crayon.
After months of spiralling deeper into debt and despair, my truer best friend threw me a rope. Or to be more accurate, he whipped me with it. He'd thrown me this rope months before this point, but I had been too proud to take it. I'd never needed help before. I'd never accepted help before.
What I lacked in money, I made up for in crippling denial.When it finally came to a choice between the rope or the street, it wasn't such a difficult decision. And once I'd made that decision: my rage, my frustration, my desperation -- it gained a manic kind of momentum. I wanted out of that house yesterday, I didn't care what it took. I threw it all away. My lounge suite, my appliances, my furniture, my cutlery – it all went. I kept clothes and the important things – memories and my passions – but I racked up $2500 more debt to have people burn that chapter of my life away as quickly as they could.
I went from a three bedroom house to a sofa bed in one room, and it was the most incredible relief I'd felt all year.
It wasn't a step backwards. It was a reset. Not just for my finances, but for my spirit. I decided I never wanted to be in that position ever again. I hadn't felt like the captain of my own fate for a very long time, and people who feel that way are forever doomed to let the sea carry them wherever it wishes. I would not be forty years old and still looking through seat cushions.
I made a plan.
I opened six new bank accounts devoted to my various financial needs.
I connected with friends worthy of my time and effort.
I threw myself into cryptocurrency.
I joined an archery club – something I'd sworn I would do for twenty years.
I started writing again.
I joined this community.
I played a video game.
I would say I am reclaiming myself, but I'm not certain if I ever really owned myself to begin with. So I am claiming myself – finally – inch by inch. It's not an easy feat, and I have a junk drawer of emotional knots to untangle, but it's progress.
My job still rules me for now, but surrogates are hard to release. My self-worth has always been bound too tightly to external factors, and I care far too much what the people around me think – these are problems with thirty years of traction. That's ok. It's ok to have a bumpy past, psychological blocks, and weaknesses born of those markers. Not everyone understands why people like me cling to these messes, and their judgment makes me feel stupid and even weaker at times, but it is ok. I understand my flaws, why I am who I am and why I do what I do, and there's a sad beauty in having the kind of perspective I know I have.
Cleaning my life means first cleaning my mind, and boy howdy, I am scrubbing. It's a solo job, but there are people cheering me on even when they don't realize it, and that makes me scrub harder. My brain isn't quite at Glistening Display Home just yet, but it's no longer Squatter's Crack Den either, and I'll take that.
Current Brain Level: The One with the Dirty Girl
Which brings me to the precipice of a new year actually feeling a little bit hopeful. 2018 will be a sweaty, bloody year, but it won't be hard work for hard work's sake alone. I'll be scrubbing, chipping, grinding, and sanding my life until it's something I'm proud to live.
So I guess what I really want to say to 2017 is this:
Thank you for leading me here.
But also kindly die in a fire now.