Burn
If I rely on emotion rather than memory, 2016 was a hot, steaming pile of garbage that needed to go. Last night in New Year’s Eve, I sat in my living room writing on a sheet of white paper all the things that I wanted to purge from 2016. But when I began, the specific instances that came to mind were counterbalanced by the weight of good things I seemed to have tucked away and forgotten to celebrate.
It was a tough year internally, coming off a six-year-ish streak of rough years. And sure, there was heartache in 2016, culminating with the finality of my divorce and the horrible, sinking realization that life is moving too fast, and I get less raw time with my beautiful son, my best little friend now that he is mine only fifty percent of the time. My step father was diagnosed with multiple myeloma and had to undergo a painful and taxing stem-cell replacement surgery. I spent the last two months overwhelmed by a too busy work schedule and a heavy feeling that I never wanted to get out of bed again. These things all threatened to topple me. I don’t think I got out of bed at all Thursday of this past week.
But this year also saw beauty. I traveled, including an excellent and well-spent trip to see my brother in Florida and the perfect vacations to Disney and Rehoboth Beach with my son, my first true vacation experiences as a single momma. I was cast on an improv house team after several heartbreaking, less successful auditions, and I made more friends and got more comedy experience, including the impulse to try stand up in the year to come.
I finished a novel this year, my second. And though I still have edits, there is something exquisite about achieving the first draft. I saw concerts and visited museums and parks and aquariums. I survived the shit and still managed to expand and flourish.
So why can’t I think gently about the year that passed? Why did I walk down to the fire pit in my building and burn the paper on which I wrote all the things I hated about 2016, feeling washed in relief as it turned to ash?
Again, it was the culmination of several devastating years that bled into the past one. I let it continue like a long-winded, tragic novel about loss and endless suffering and never finding love or comfort in the dark, cold world. I needed so badly to burn those pages, not to erase them, but to stop the flow of narration.
I want better for myself in 2017. I don’t mean material wise or accomplishment wise, though I want to keep striving for accomplishment, but i want to take better of myself. I don’t want to be crippled with sadness, even if the situation warrants it. I don’t want to accept less for myself. I want to start feeling worthy and valuable, and I want to be more assertive when someone is taking advantage of me or not treating me with the same love or kindness or compassion I’m extending. I want to forgive myself when I fail or suck or just can’t be what I want to be. I want to let go of old resentments and pain so that I can make room for something better.
As long as I keep thinking, I could probably add to that list, but I’ll keep it to my original statement. I want better for myself in 2017, and that is where I’ll begin.
With my sweet little boy tucked in next to me, gently snoring, and my cat keeping guard over my feet, I go into the next twenty-four hours of 2017 with hope and love.
And maybe, if I remember to have something like these quiet moments each night before bed all year long, I’ll have nothing to burn next New Year’s Eve.