It’s January 1st and I feel a little raw.
I’ve just taken my afternoon Ativan and I’m looking ahead to the next few days, weeks, and months.
It’s been such a tiresome year, and I have so many hopes for 2017 that the burden is almost back-breaking.
I want to be well.
So well that I am loveable.
And yet, I only have one New Year’s resolution. I want to live an extraordinary life.
(Maybe those sentences mean the same thing)
I want to recover and I want to be more than better. I want to run and eat well and live fully. I want to be independent and I want to feel something more than abandonment. I want to be surrounded in love and experience some strangeness in the dark.
I want to write and reach out and do it all in my own way, even if I fumble.
It’s going to be difficult (it already has been), but I think 17 is a good number and I have hope.
Happy New Year, World. You’re full of surprises but I’m still in love with you.