This is just a blog post so why is the blinking cursor suddenly so intimidating?
I had planned to write a little wrap up on 2022 and maybe share a bit about my intentions for 2023, (I can't believe it's already the 3rd of January). But sitting in my office now, all I can really think to say is that 2022 was a steaming pile of garbage.
Don't get me wrong, there is a lot I am grateful for, my kids, my health, my family, my creativity - I wrote a whole fucking book! But I also struggled through really overwhelming mental health problems. My ADHD was raging, I fell into to multiple depressive episodes and I cried a shit ton more than I expected to.
In July I sat down and I did something pretty huge, for me at least. I got really honest with myself. Before I continue, this is a good time to tell you that much like the main character of my debut novel, I am the girl who is always fine. Even when I am not. Even with there are fires burning in every corner of my mind. If you asked me? I would say I was fine.
Dear Reader, I was not fine.
As the stress and anxiety of literally just being alive in a capitalist society mounted, I started to feel like I was drowning. There was just too much. Too much of everything. I was lost in endless to-do lists and the self imposed of pressure of wanting to start my own business but having absolutely no time to do anything with it. So I wrote a book.
One night, I told the incredible women I was in a group chat with, this story about an ex, and when I was done, I felt so good. I want to say unburdened, but truthfully, I never really felt burdened by that part of my life. I had spent many hours in therapy processing it a decade ago. I felt unburdened because there is some magic juice in story telling. Something happens when you sit down and simply share a moment of your life, its freeing. But more than that, it feels like each word allows you to forge a connection with the person or people you are talking to. And in a world where human connection is so painfully absent, that moment of story telling felt incredibly profound to me.
I realised then that I wanted to write. A book to be precise. And so I did. It took months and tears, and wrangling many moments of imposter syndrome, but I did it.
2022 was a crazy wash of struggle.
There were so many happy moments in between, but for the most part, I will remember 2022 as one of my painful years. My grandpa died, my sister moved to another country, the previously mentioned depression. But, and I'll ask you to allow me a moment for a very drawn out metaphor here, all of those very shit moments were like kindling for this little forge I'd built in my mind. And those fires, built from all my sadness, kind of remade me. Whoa, dramatic. I know. But I'm serious. I started this year (three days ago) feeling like someone different. Someone I knew many years ago. Someone who was proud and creative and enthusiastic. I love her. I've missed her. And I realise now, sitting here in my humid as shit office, I don't need to recap one of the darkest years of my life. Fuck that. We're looking forward.