2018 is over. Thank fuck for that.
I can’t lie to you. Right now I am naked from the bottom down, wearing a huge yellow jumper, my hair is a mess, there are mascara slicks down my cheek and I’m turning the corner into a dirty lemoncello hangover. I feel sick, I am heartbroken and I am giving off a faint odour of onions. But I’m alive.
I am alive and what was categorically the worst year of my adult life is over. It is behind me. It is done. I don’t have to write the number anymore. I don’t even have to look at it.
A new year has begun and I didn’t wake up alone. I woke up, party dress still on, next to two of my favourite humans.
Last night I buried my face into Ruth’s gold sequin dress. I didn’t want to leave. This woman has held me up and given me form when I have been sure I am made of water. How she has found the patience to deal with me throughout my most insufferable era, I don’t know. But she has. And I owe it to her, and to Caroline and to Phoebe, to be better this year. 2019.
Ruth stayed. She always does for me. Paul stayed too. He always does for her. I love him for that. Together we make a chain of people who love each other and won’t let one another fall to the floor in a puddle. Having each other isn’t a cliche, it is the only tonic that will cure you.
2018, you broke me in places I didn’t know I could break. I hope in 2019 I grow in places I didn’t know I could grow. I hope my head touches the ceiling then bursts out the chimney. I hope I wear my desk drawers as shoes.
These are the ravings or a drunk woman amid a nauseating lemoncello haze. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is over and you were here to see me through it. The sun is shining outside my window. Thank you. Again. Thank you. 5,4,3,2,1. Let’s do this.