If only I could translate sarcasm and cynicism into an active writing career.
… … …
The end of the year means a lot to me. I don’t find it as flippant and eye-roll inducing as a lot of people do. It means more to me than astrology and religion and a bunch of other if’s, and’s, or buts.
I can look back on a year and tell you how I felt with detail and emphasis. It’s just enough time for me to take a lesson, maybe one that I will ultimately ignore, and mold into something real. Looking back on 2017 feels different than looking back on 2016, than looking back on 2015, and so on. I find enough value in it to make sure that I write something, anything, on New Year’s Eve. There hasn’t been much to stop that from happening in the past 7 or 8 years.
This year was a lot of…nothing. Alabama was a mistake but one that I needed to make in order to move forward. This year started with a car accident and ended with a death. It started with a fresh start and ended right back where I was running from. But it did start. And it did end. And I’m not dead.
I made a lot of money this year. A whole lot. I think I made more money this year than I’ve ever made in my life (in terms of working – my Dad’s death obviously reaped me more money but that was lost as quickly as his life). I earned. I worked so hard sometimes that I wouldn’t sleep (or eat) for days at a time.
This year, I had two sexual partners. One that I’ve known for almost ten years and one that I’d only known a couple of weeks. This year I kind of lost the feeling that love gave me, the feeling that made me want to keep going back to it over and over. The feeling that made me deal with situations and attitudes I didn’t like.
The excuses seemed to fall from existence this year. The fear was immense. The desire to withdraw from humanity and become someone else, to live in my own head until my body gave up, that intensified. I’m going into 2018 understanding that I want to escape reality some way, some how. Even if it’s just by doing well as a writer, moving somewhere remote, and dying in the woods of old age and romanticism.
I understand that my depression makes things up a lot. It tells me things that aren’t true. It takes things from me, things that help me cope: music, art, movies, love, lust, everything. But it can’t take my stories, and it can’t take my day dreams, and I understand that now. My fear of my writing dwindling and dying out have always been unfounded.
Writing will always be there for me. My characters will always be there for me. And so, I’ll take better care of them this year.
I don’t know. I go into 2018 as Shaquana Amanda Briggs, Trey Briggs, Treys Ludlow. I go into 2018 as the mother of Rajesh and Urijah. The sister of Tairina, Derrick, and Keith. The daughter of Denise Briggs. I go into 2018 as the on again, off again girlfriend of Wolf. I go into 2018 as a lot of old things, and also a lot of new.
I look forward to all the success, all the failure, all the tears, all the fear, all the love, all the lust, all the writing and fantasies that 2018 will bring. I love being me. I love myself and all that I can endure.
I go into this year as a monster that I most definitely created, and I fucking love it.