The only way my celebrations make sense this time of the year is if I think of everything from solstice night to new year eve as one big festival.
From Thanksgiving to now is a time for reflection, thinking of the things I’m thankful for, or the things that sucked. It’s the time for going over mistakes and successes.
Tomorrow starts my New Year. I’m going to spend the whole night awake Thursday night, on the beach, waiting for the sun to rise. That will be a quiet night, for thinking about the darkness, for wishing for the light. With the dawn it is the New Year officially, but it’s a festival season. From Solstice morning to calendar New Year’s day is the Yule festival, with gift giving, putting together the new planner, overeating, visiting friends and family, making plans and resolutions and going to parties.
With the end of the festival on New Year’s day is time to get busy and make things happen.
I wrote a poem for 2017
I get a few seconds of fuzzy innocence in the morning.
Safe, pain free, warm, purring
My first thought of the day is “mmmm…”
My second is “Fuck!”, as I remember who I am and when I am.
It’s 2017, I’m angry.
Most days I don’t cry.
Most days I don’t scream out in pain and fury.
Most days I calmly get up and pee, seething with rage.
I hate my ex as I brush my teeth.
I hate my house as I splash water on my face
I hate my age as I put on moisturizer.
I hate my fat as I get dressed
I hate my leg as I painfully clump down the stairs.
I eat too much for breakfast, sweet and decadent,I feel like this should make me happy
I drink 16 oz of water and take vitamins, fucking life affirmation or some shit.
Life sucks, being well be hydrated and full of expensive chemicals can’t make it worse.
At least I’m worth as much as my component parts.
You could have sold me for scrap instead of tossing me in a fucking landfill, your loss assholes.
I am so angry deep inside. Road rage level angry.
Fuck you up, find you and beat the shit out of you angry.
Instead I do PT, and imagine how someday I can be strong again. I can run again.
I ran a lot last year.
2016, I was ashamed.
I was ashamed because I was afraid to say no, so I ran to escape that failure.
I was ashamed because I was violated, my body didn’t belong to me. I tried to shrink until all the nasty parts were gone.
I imagined sexual assault lived in my fat, that it could be burned away.
Shrinking didn’t work.
I never got fast enough, small enough or far enough away to feel unashamed.
I drank a lot of tequila, that helped.
Oh well. I don’t feel ashamed now, I guess the fire of my hate is hot enough to burn away shame. Neat.
Enough about the past,
I knit angry, making beautiful beaded lace with breakup gift yarn.
I look calm, as I check my planner, mark off my tasks. If you were watching me you wouldn’t know my secret, like the Hulk, I’m always angry.
I’m angry as I read, angry watching tv, angry as I cook, angry scooping cat litter.
I’m angry while at work, angry while I drive, angry when I’m smiling, laughing, spending time with my friends.
I’m not angry in bangs and screams.
I’m not angry in explosions.
I’m not angry like a bomb.
Not angry like a man.
I’m angry like a woman. Who did her best and was never enough.
It’s the proper ladylike anger of an educated, responsible divorcee rebuilding her life.
I’m appropriately angry in the kitchen,
Slow , silent, scalding steam until the pot boils dry
In 2018 maybe everything will have burned away
I’ll be empty.
The heat will die and I’ll cool.
In 2018 I’ll be empty and clean.