I’ve been uncharacteristically quiet on the blog this year. At first, I was busy trying to piece my life back together after my father’s suicide, and now I’m just trying to find the pieces of myself after my brother’s suicide. I have no hope of putting them back together. It’s like one of those 1000-piece color gradient puzzles. It’s doable but infuriating.
Writing often felt like a chore or an obligation. It felt like grocery shopping, or like filling my tires with air, and if you know me at all, you know I haven’t done either of those things in months. (Not a real grocery shopping trip, anyway. Sometimes I go in and buy cheez-its and then I run out as fast as I can before the panic sets in.)
I was worried for a while that I was falling back into a depression. I’m not. I still spend time with friends. I still work out. Hell, I even cook a couple nights a week thanks to Sun Basket. But I am sad.
I am sad all the time. I am so sad that I have completely forgotten what it feels like to have hope, or excitement, or happiness. But I am not depressed. I love my job, my friends, my family, my pets–especially my pets–but I do not know what happiness looks like.
So many people have wished me a Merry Christmas or a Happy New Year and I just want to scream at them. I know it’s the polite thing to do, to spread holiday cheer or whatever. But it’s inconsiderate. Why would my holidays be happy? Why would I have a good Christmas when one brother is now a box of ashes and the other is MIA? Why would it be a Happy New Year when I can no longer share it with some of the people that mean the most to me?
Maybe it’s because it’s been almost six months, and people have short memories. They think, oh, time has passed. She’s fine now, right? Did something bad happen to her? I can’t remember. Maybe it’s because people want me to be happy, which is really sweet, but unrealistic. Maybe it’s because it’s the thing people say to each other in passing, and no one really wants to hear that on Christmas you got so sad being around a bunch of happy people that you sat in a corner and read a book and tried to disappear into yourself.
People have started wishing me a Happy New Year, and on Facebook, I told them don’t. It’s a mockery. Don’t wish happiness for me. I can’t see it. I don’t know what it looks like. I told them to wish me a better year. Because the bar is buried six feet under and anything that isn’t death is a hair better.
So to those of you who had a great 2018: Good for you. I’m happy for you, and I mean that– at least I think this gurgling feeling in my stomach is happiness, anyway. But I had a fucking terrible year. I had a dumpster fire full of rotten eggs of a year. I had the kind of year that would make me grow chest hair if I had more testosterone. I had the kind of year that makes happy people look at their lives and go, Thank GOD I am not that person.
Good riddance, 2018. Fuck off forever.