The panic is over. It’s done. It’s gone.
The Christmas presents have been opened, we’ve feigned our, “Oh no, really, it’s lovely.” The kids have torn open their hundreds of pounds worth of goodies with the same speed as a sniffer dog after a kilo of heroin. We’ve eaten more in a few days than we’d eat in a fortnight, and I for one sure as hell still ain’t getting out of my pyjamas for a good few days yet. No sir. But it’s done, it’s over, deep breaths now.
But hang on. It’s over? So, like, what do I do now?
Yes, yes I’m one of those insufferable contrary types that complain when I have too much to do and complain even more when I haven’t got enough to occupy my overactive grey matter. Soz.
I now have no lists of lists to compile, I have no extensive shopping trips to accomplish, no mountains of presents to wrap all snazzy and fancy. No anticipation. And more importantly not an awful lot to keep my mind away from the dark shit that is always looming way too close for comfort. And to top it off, the cherry on the cake if you will, it’s that time of year when we all get a little too introspective than is really good for us, take a long, critical look at ourselves and decide what shit needs. to. be. changed.
I don’t trust new year’s resolutions. They seem very smug to me, far too superior and up their own arse.
Why wait until January 1st to change stuff, to make. stuff. happen? Fuck dat shit.
Yeah another year has gone by, and I’m still not a size 12, I’m not a gazillionaire and worst than that I failed my sodding driving test. My other half is still terribly unwell, and yes, we still have no bloody clue of what is wrong and what to do about it. My son isn’t reading Harry Potter already. My nails still won’t grow. All my warring relatives are still at it with gusto and are ignoring the cries for amnesty. I’m still stuck on the happy pills that make me feel sad and dirty every single morning when I swallow them. I still have too many dark days.
But d’you know what? Fuck it. Because somehow, somehow, we got through it another year. Somehow I’m still here after saying to myself countless times in that past 365 days (or was it a leap year this year? Whatever!) that I couldn’t do this anymore.
They say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
I say that’s a load of tosh.
Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you weary, and tired and broken.
But this new years eve, I refuse to beat myself up as usual that yep, that’s another year gone, and I’ve achieved nothing. Again.
I will be popping those irritating bastard party poppers, and quaffing the warm prosecco like the best of ‘em, pure and simply because I can, and I got there. Somehow.