I was sitting in my hotel room in Macau when I ushered in the new year that was 2012. The television screeched in delight, highlighting the excitement of all the outdoor celebrations, and I merely sat – thinking and contemplating. This was a moment that I had been waiting for, always wanting to claim, yet never confident enough to take. But for some inexplicable reason, I felt ready, and told myself that “this would be my year.”
But in its brevity, the phrase seemingly finds itself eclipsed of its actual meaning.
2012 wouldn’t necessarily be a year of categorical triumphs and successes (though those did happen), but it would be one where I was, for once (and perhaps for the first time), in actual control of my own life. Careening episodes of depression wouldn’t define nor would they ruin me, as I had let them in the past. A daily obstacle course of unsound medicating and poor medical practice wouldn’t await me this time around; instead, only a small dose of Citalopram would beckon me each morning. As for the traumas that had once swallowed me whole, they would find themselves shrunken down to manageable bites.
There were the rites of passage – last semester of university, graduation, landing the first full-time job, paying my first bills – but it was all the little things in between that made them all the more special. I didn’t have all the answers about what I wanted to do or where I wanted to be, but I wasn’t in a constant state of panic, treading enough water to simply keep my head afloat. I was making strides and moving forward with my life, albeit one small step at a time.
Of course, though, there were the aches. Some friendships fell to the wayside and there was little I could do in terms of salvaging them. But that’s one of the things that I’ve come to realize as I’ve grown older – not everything can be (or should be) fought for.
And then there were the stumbles. Maybe it was the onset of early dusks or the fact that I was revisiting the past, but the last two months of the year were difficult ones. As I write this entry, I find the past two months to be such heavy hitters that I keep coming back to revise this entry, asking myself if the year was really that good to me. The casting of self-doubt has me believing that 2012 was horrible to me when, in fact, it was anything but.
To be honest, this entry started off with the goal of explaining what it was when I said “this would be my year,” but as I write and re-write the passages, I realize that I’m not quite sure that even I understand what I meant. The recurring theme that I’ve come to find, though, is this sense of having a certain accountability for highs and lows. Granted, some of the things that happened and some of the choices made weren’t necessarily the most glowing, but they were at least my own.