Every year, for at least the last several, by this date I'm done. I'm just so fucking over the last 364 days that I cannot wait for this shit to be finished. It's so easy to look back at the year, through the recent magnified lens of holiday angst and see all of the things left fucked up, unfinished, undone, or just not gone right.
The past week social media has been flooded with "fun" posts of the "list one thing you're proud to have accomplished this year" or "what's your happiest memory of 2018" variety. And every time I scroll across one I sit and think. And ponder. And strain. This year has been so awful, on so many levels, and for so many reasons that I have to truly struggle to think of ANY good things.
So, given my general end of year attitude, right now would normally be the time I am beyond ready to tack a new number onto the date. The hell with 2018. Burn it with fire, bury it in a shallow grave, whatever, just get it the fuck away from me.
Only...
Firsts are hard. So are lasts. I hate this year. So much. There are not words for how much. But it's the last one I had with my mom. And that makes me want to cling to this thing that I loathe, like it's a life raft that could, that might, keep my head above water. Sitting trapped in this too quiet house, feeling the minutes ticking away, I know time does not operate on my whims. I wish it did. That it could. If there was deity who could be swayed, I would beg for a do-over of this year. Even if the outcome had to be the same. I'm not ready for it to be 2019. It's not a first that I want. But I know, like with so many other painful things, that there is no choice to be made.
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