What do you do when you've completely lost all hope?
Even at the end of 2020, I had some small little spark of hope. A tiny part of my heart that thought maybe, just maybe we'll find a way through this.
Foolish, stupid, ridiculous heart.
I see people posting about how they still had a good 2021, despite it all. And I get so, so angry at them. How dare they be happy? How dare they show any joy?
I know it's irrational and misplaced. Doesn't stop me from feeling like that.
I have written in the past here so many times before about how awful of a year I had. I fucking MISS those 'worst years'.
In order, here's my 2021:
January:
Both of my in-laws end up with covid, my father-in-law dies from it.
February:
Robyn loses their job.
Our sewer breaks, causing my business to come to a grinding halt for MONTHS.
March:
I have a complete gender crisis.*
April:
My mother has a stroke, and is still dealing with an unknown illness that is still slowly weakening her.
It becomes clear that Booda, my baby boy, is suffering and needs to be put down.
Not even a fucking week after that, my BEST FUCKING FRIEND dies from covid. Her family is fucking AWFUL about it, making an already traumatic event so much worse.
June:
The sewer still isn't fixed, meaning I had to turn down an exciting dye job for my LYS.
August:
We lost our cat, Phelix.
September:
Grandma falls at work and breaks her leg, which also causes the business to halt as my sister who lives with her (and who helps me with the yarn) is taking care of grandma.
I have an extremely terrifying menstrual cycle that causes my anxiety and dysphoria to spike. I lose so much blood that I almost pass out.
This leads to a ptsd-flashback-triggering doctor appointment that still doesn't give me definitive answers.
October:
Find out that Robyn has elevated cholesterol and I don't, but somehow my body is the problem?
November:
My anxiety gets so bad that I have heart palpitations for a week straight.
December:
Multiple friends have covid or are in isolation, waiting to see if they do.
My mother-in-law probably has covid again.
And through this all, my mental health has tanked. I am never not anxious anymore. I have reverted back to bad habits that damage and compromise my closest relationships.
I finally started therapy, but I am really, really struggling with everything. I hardly knit this year. Most of the projects I completed I couldn't even bring myself to post about them.
And as I'm typing this, I find out Betty White died. Just... fucking hell.
I feel like a hollowed out shell. I'm still going through the motions of existence, but I'm not alive. And as omicron now ravages the world, I struggle to see an end to it all that isn't just bleakness and despair. It's an unending end.
I have no hope or desires for 2022. None. I have seen just how awful humanity can be and I know we're not escaping.
I'm not going to leave you with empty platitudes or well wishes.
Just hold on to your hope if, by some miracle, you have any left.
As for me, I'll still be trapped in this house, watching everything burn down around me.
Happy 2022.
Fuck.
