Hello, how are you?
Yes, I am asking you, dear reader, but I am also truly asking myself. I talk to myself a lot these days, but I seem to forget the pleasantries.
2018 started like an anvil to the head followed by an extended game of whack-a-mole, but it’s alright. I’m alright. I think. Or I am not, but that is okay too.
The best thing about taking a wrecking ball to a rotten house is that you no longer have to worry about it falling down on you.
Right now I feel like I am emerging from a pile of rubble, dust in my hair and eyelashes, dirt under my fingernails and scratches across my feet. I’ve lost my shoes somewhere but it’s fine because everything is beautiful and the possibilities are endless once more.
I am turning 30 in a month and my life is nothing like I expected. Actually that’s not true, I drink a lot of cocktails, have a lot of friends and own healthy number of plants…but other than that I had no idea I would be single, living on my own 3,500 miles from home and regularly staring down the uninvited guest of crippling anxiety. That’s the thing about plans. If you really think about it, they mean fuck all to anyone or anything other than yours truly. Try as you may, you can’t control the 7.5 billion other plan makers and the trillions of possible outcomes their actions could create. You’ve just got to sort of ride the chaos and hope it works out alright. Scary, but actually pretty beautiful if you give in to it in good faith and with a reasonable dash of good humour.
When I opened my eyes this morning, all number of outcomes were possible. Some of them good. Some of them not so good. I will graciously do my best to accept that some of them are within my control and some are not.
I want to tell you about everything that lead me here to this spot, writing this post in my one bedroom apartment in Toronto, the night after a cancelled Christmas party and a gut-wrenchingly testing year. I will. But first I wanted to ask… how are you?