Diving In

 

This is an excerpt from a blog I wrote in the last days of an exceptionally horrible year—2009:

 

     What’s amusing is the idea of the New Year being when to kick into gear all the changes you want to make for yourself. Really, the calendar is just something man devised to keep track of time on paper. It’s been changed throughout the ages and really, whether you follow a lunar year, a solar year, or a combo of both, it’s all just time. Who’s to say that resolutions can’t be made in the middle of the year? We’re heading into the most depressing time of the year come January. I forget where I read it, but it’s supposedly the peak month for suicides. The holidays are over and all you really have to look forward to is COLD (of course this is regional) and latent credit card bills. I can understand how the gloom can overtake someone. So, how is it a good idea to resolve to change your life when you’ll be lucky to want to leave your house during the dreariest part of the year? Maybe if New Year’s happened in the summer, more people would stick to their diet and exercise resolutions.

      Still, even I am guilty of making these promises to myself. I’ll put down the cake and do some sit ups and it’ll be summer before I know it. Right?

Well, I still like the idea of warm weather New Year’s but haven’t put down the cake…or done any sit ups. I’m struggling to not give up on resolutions—or myself

I’m creeping to the edge of the New Year’s diving board, not ready to jump head first. I know that I can’t turn around and go back down the ladder and the belligerent bully Time will call me names and eventually shove me off the end. Still, I’m not ready for a new year. I never am.

I’m not ready mostly because I feel like I’ll be facing more let downs and stress and frankly, I’ve had enough. I’m so tired. Literally and figuratively. The beginning of every new year prompts me to try to figure out what the hell it is that I’m doing with my life (even more than an average day). It doesn’t help that every year that zips by, leaving me to wonder if I slept through a season or two, makes me feel older than I know I have a right to. I’m not sure when the anxiety surrounding my inevitable aging started. I know I never thought about it when I was a teenager. Maybe it was in my late twenties? I have no idea. It sneaked up on me like a creep in a dark alley and I’ve been stuffed in its trunk ever since.

I worry that I’ve let too much time pass and I’ll never get to the place I feel like I belong: in the country on a few acres, 3-5 horses, in an old farmhouse that the husband and I refurbished, and writing books for a living.

I worry that this chronic depression has ruined me. I’m in a perpetual state of yawn. No matter how much I sleep, I’m always tired. I think I honestly felt LESS tired before I started medicating to rid myself of the depressive feelings and that’s depressing in itself.

I worry that I’ll spend my whole life saying “I need to…” or “I’m going to…”

I know that I’m the one who controls my future and only I can make things happen. When everything is an internal battle, is it any wonder that I am always exhausted and not really in the mood to move mountains? But maybe this is the year I power through the pervasive desire to nap and take steps toward my dreams. Tired or not, I will face the New Year and do my best impression of someone who knows what they’re doing. I’ll step to the end of the board, bounce, and jump, hoping that this will be the year that I come to the surface with some clue to where I go from here.

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