I'm going to exercise more...
I'm going to read more...
I'm going to save more money...
Which I think means I'm too much of a resolution girl. I just meant I'm not much of a New Year resolution girl. Silly, really. The one time the universe invites me to be resolute I turn it down, preferring instead to fail my resolutions throughout the other months of the year.
Lately I have had the keen sense that I've been wasting time this year. Too much time falling down the wrong internet rabbit holes, too much time watching shitty TV, too much time reading crap magazines, too much time worried about what other people think - a favorite pastime of mine...
Not enough time spent reading and writing and doing the kind of things that better my mind, my outlook, my spirit. I lost control in 2012, I think. And, in my very human attempt to blame something else for my shortcomings, I'll confidently point my finger at the house fire. The fire and the aftermath really messed me up. In ways so much more complex than the obvious.
Yeah we lost a lot of stuff, yeah we had to move, yeah we were really scared, but what messed me up most is this indefinable feeling of dread I carry around in my heart now. The rug on which I strolled through life was yanked from beneath my feet. I fell on my ass. Hard. 2012 was a year spent in survival mode, consoling myself with the most immediate comforts available: food, alcohol, TV, internet.
I don't feel safe. Still. Am always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I constantly roam around my house, including several times a night, touching plugs to make sure they aren't warm, feeling walls to see if they're warm, opening doors and peeking into rooms fully expecting to see flames engulfing everything.
Will that unsettling expectation of imminent danger ever go away?
Losing so much stuff instilled within me an impulse to acquire more stuff. Particularly for my daughter, who lost everything. Not important stuff. Just stuff. I guess to show the fire that it didn't win? I don't know. For someone who has a history of not enjoying shopping, I spent a lot of time roaming aisles in search of the one thing that could perfectly plug the hole in my heart. I never found it, of course.
You'd think it would be the other way around, wouldn't you? That a fire destroying so much, including my personal mementos, would inspire a deep appreciation for what's truly important. Which, it did that, yes, but it also freaked me out so badly that I immersed myself in methodically improving upon my surroundings by acquiring more stuff. Futile. Like slapping a tiny band-aid on a gaping wound, it was never going to work.
You see where this is going, don't you?
Back to the resolutions... I want to grab the reigns of these wild runaway horses of 2012, and show the bastards who's boss of 2013. Make 2013 my bitch, if you will... And yet I'm afraid to vocalize any specific desire because of the overwhelming fear of more failure and the inevitable crushing disappointment in myself.
This is where the cliches come in, right? Yes. Trying and failing is better than not trying at all.
This time I'll just try to fail better.