Lately I spend December with one thought: I can’t wait for this year to end. This isn’t the first time that’s happened either. More often than not, my years alternate sickness, loss, and heartbreak, and it’s all I can see when looking back, no matter the good sprinkled in.
Last year I found myself wishing for that ball to drop more than any other before. After experiencing the loss of a friend for the first time, back-to-back brain surgeries, and facing the cold water of adulthood, I needed the change a new year promised.
The only problem? Here I am in colder weather again feeling the same way. Another death in the family, more sickness, more reality, and I want to will my twenty-third year away as much as I did my twenty-second.
I know I don’t keep resolutions. The closest I came was when I said I would lose ten pounds and then got food poisoning on New Year’s Eve. So instead of false promises and empty hope, I’m aiming for one thing: perspective.
I deal a lot with an abomination of survivor’s guilt. My medical conditions aren’t as bad as other people I know, I have plenty of support, and I’ve never had to face my mortality. I also tend to take up the role of the strong one when it comes to my suffering—some might call it martyrdom. I feel weight where I shouldn’t, and that needs to change.
So take the pledge with me. Having a rough year doesn’t mean you wish it away any sooner. It might take another bad year before things turn around, but it will eventually build the foundation for a better future. It did a decade ago when I went through the same constant pain, so why can’t it again, right?