(Not to say if you’re reading this that you, kind reader, are “no-one in particular” in all contexts. You’re definitely someone. Language is a blunt instrument that way.)
I have a draft journal entry which spans all of 2019. It was all about getting my diagnosis, the various trials and tribulations of that year, everything else. It was a hard year, 2019.
The last line of the 2019 journal was “2020, please be good to us”.
2020 was a seemingly infinite landscape of shittiness, with the odd gold nugget poking out. Some good and useful things came out of 2020, but mostly it was just shit. And more shit. Shit with the thickened consistency of suffocating, pitiless mud.
Many of us found ourselves in front of a proverbial Mirror of Truth, caked in all of this woe and desperation and exhaustion. We didn’t recognise ourselves anymore. We’d let other people down. Other people had let us down. Never mind that we were flat out keeping ourselves going in deeply unfamiliar territory, taxed and challenged in ways we could scarcely fathom, as the old ways of living became more and more like a strange dream – as though we’d come back from a holiday which all felt unreal and impossible and even a little frightening from our present moment.
I was worried for 2021 – not relieved, if I’m honest. There would be a lot of clean-up and mending and fixing. Further disintegration seemed inevitable. The work to rebuild the mess into something better was overwhelming to even think about, running on fumes as we are.
Still, running on fumes is marginally better than permanently conked out.