It’s New Year’s Eve, so of course I must write.
Y’all, this year has been hard.
I started the year planning to write more, letter more, draw more, do more. Instead, I started the year barely being able to breathe, and it’s honestly been one health crisis after another.
On the one hand, I’m getting medical care. I have access to good care. That’s amazing.
On the other hand, I’ve been cycling through new meds AT LEAST monthly since the summer, almost ALL of which have had drastic affects on my life. (At least 2 of them made me suicidal, and this latest one has helped my depression but increased the intensity of my migraines. I haven’t been able to be present in a fully-lit room for weeks.)
I feel like I can’t complain. After all, I am getting help. I’m doing a lot better than I was a year ago or two years ago.
But I feel like a failure, honestly.
I haven’t written the way that I want to, because I’ve just been emotionally incapable. I haven’t created nearly as much art as I’ve wanted to, and I’ve only been able to do it in spurts. Most of my days look like me barely making it through the work day before I come home and collapse.
I’m a writer. I need to write. I’m an artist. I need to art. I’m a designer, I’m our only source of income, I’m dealing with a lot of personal life things that are so, so draining.
And it’s December. December is terrible, and historically the month when I am the most hopeless.
I’m trying to be gentle with myself. I’m trying to be kind. But it’s hard. I look and sound healthy, but I’m not. I’m just not. And I don’t know how to manage being kind to myself without driving myself sick with worry over how others will perceive my inactivity and sporadic creation of words and art.
In the words of wise old Bilbo Baggins, “I feel old. Thin. Like butter scraped over too much bread.”
So maybe, in 2016, I can work on beating myself up less for things that aren’t my fault in the first place.
I have chronic migraines. I’m allowed to ask for less noise and fewer lights.
I probably have fibromyalgia. I’m allowed to say that I can’t do activities that require I put myself in a position of being bed-ridden the next day.
I have anxiety, depression, PTSD. I’m allowed to care for myself when these problems arise.
I’m allowed to ask for help, like when I texted Paige at midnight the night I realized one of my medications was driving me to suicide, and when I called my parents the next day telling them something was horribly wrong and they and Paige both took care of me.
I’m allowed to be alone, for my introverted sanity.
I’m allowed to cry when things hurt or are scary. I’m allowed to laugh when things are funny. I’m allowed to not participate in activities I don’t want to do, and I’m allowed to give myself time and space to just be and breathe and recover.
May 2016 be a year in which I choose to be kind and gentle with myself, and therefore give others like me permission to love themselves, as well.
I love you all, so very much. My online communities breathe health and care and love into my life. Your presence, your words, you care and love…they all keep me going. I’m so grateful for you, and I hope to grow closer to you all in this new year as well.