The new year is barely breathing, but I still hear the gasps
of the one I am so eager to put behind me.
Certainly on a comparative scale from exceptional to
excruciating, it wasn’t annus horribilis.
It was difficult and unfulfilling, uneventful and vindicating. It was the end
of a six-year quest for closure that did nothing to bring me to life and
everything to remind me that I wasn’t living.
At least not the way I want to be.
Leave it to the season of giving (the one now packed away
with the tree and its trappings) to wrap it up prettily to remind me just how
little I progressed and how far I came in 365 days. And somewhere amidst the
eggnog and the glitter, December delivered the final blow.
I give. And I give. And I give. And I give. And I give some
more.
A deeply rooted character flaw, that.
I am, admittedly, a woman of emotions. I hurt, I laugh, I
simmer, I bubble, I seethe, I am content to simply be. I am also, admittedly,
afraid to be weak and let those emotions that are so innate to my woman-ness hurt
me. But it’s my desire to give that frustrates me most. It’s not that I expect
reciprocation of equal or consistent value.
It’s that I forgot I matter, too.
Until I remembered that I do.
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