all the things I didn’t do in 2022.
In January, my feed is filled celebratory reflections, ambitious goals, highlight reels, and smiley photo dumps. And, as much as I want to smile back, I can’t help but feel an uncomfortable animosity towards this time of year, and the modern traditions that accompany it. I know my autistic brain is apprehensive towards change in general, no matter how big or small, this feels like something more than my automatic change disdain.
And since my memories often deceive me, I thought it would be easy to look back through my camera roll, find a couple of happy smiles and whack them on my feed with a positive quote or an “in vs out” list. Unfortunately it wasn’t that easy, and my memories didn’t deceive me - 2022 absolutely sucked.
So, I find myself stuck in this mournful-type period, like a hangover from the defeat of 2022. During this period, I tend to withdrawal from social media, isolating myself from the feed that generally brings me a great sense of comfort. I get buried in a deep depression, and my anxiety causes an unsettling feeling in my stomach. I’ve become familiar with these feelings, as they have embraced me in sort of a unwanted hug every January for the last few years.
This year however, I stumbled across this wonderful read by Kathryn Zahorak, ‘my year of what didn’t happen’, which explores the feeling of unfulfilled plans and curveballs that life throws at us. I felt so comforted in her words, and despite the shared feeling of pain there was a warmth about it that made me feel a lot less resentful towards the new year.
So I decided instead of popping up a few highlights on my feed with a cheesy quote (which would have been a lot easier than what I’m about to write), I am going to join Kathryn, the self described poster child of life’s uncertainty, and share all the things that didn’t happen in 2022:
I didn’t get better, I got worse.
I didn’t become more independent, I became less.
I didn’t make friends, I lost them.
I didn’t become stronger, I became weaker.
I didn’t feel like a participant in life, instead I felt like merely a spectator of the tiny fraction of the world visible from the hospital room I spent 6 months in.
I didn’t embark on any of my planned creative pursuits.
I didn’t read ANY books.
I didn’t feel happier.
I didn’t thrive, I only barely survived.
And I’m trying so hard not to feel sorry for myself. I don’t want a pity party. I want to use this as motivation to do more and be more. But I think that’s the issue, wanting more when maybe I should rather be focused on wanting to be wholeheartedly me. Maybe instead of longing for the idea of the life I meticulously crafted in my head I should focus on the life within me. Perhaps that means some that years I’ll be less, and some I’ll be more, and others I may simply just be.
Because isn’t that fundamentally what it means to be human? The gift of life lies not only around us but also inside of us.
So here’s to surviving another lap around the sun, in whichever way that was ❋
Love always,
Britt x