The end of any year brings with it – along with an incredibly strong impulse to declutter – an urge to reflect on what’s happened that year, and with that, to sit in judgment of anything I’ve done (and, more often, failed to do).
There’s a lot of popular rhetoric about the concept of looking back, arguing both for and against it. On the one hand, we get to learn from our past missteps; on the other, we can often get bogged down in the mire of worrying about things we can’t change any more.
My sister is a big proponent of looking forward, rather than back. Historically, I’ve always argued that there’s value in analysing and “processing”, whatever the hell that means, situations that have been in some way significant to us.
After the last argument we had about this, I appealed – on Instagram, of course, where I make all of my appeals – for feedback from professionals (therapists, psychiatrists, psychologists): am I right, in that we need to delve into the past in order to inform the present, or is Beatrice right, in that there’s more value in being proactive and looking forward?
It turns out – for any of you who have been in, or are in, therapy, you will find this deeply predictable – that we’re both right, at least sometimes. Whatever value I might find in analysing my mistakes (or sulking over my failures, more like), is mine to find. For other people, looking over their shoulder just serves to trip them up and knock them off their current path.
I REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO BE RIGHT.
Anyway, I suppose what I’m trying to say is: don’t feel like the end of the year means you absolutely must look back on the year with a critical (or, worse, grateful eye). Feel free to look forward, instead. Or do both! It’s important, in life, to take what serves you, really, and leave the rest behind.
For my part, here are a few thoughts I’ve had about the year that was – thoughts that I hope will inform and influence and help me do better in the year that will be.
Writing a book wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be
I think this is one of those “big life events!” that just couldn’t possibly live up to the hype, no matter how “successful” (by what measurement?!) it was. I’d put it in the same category as getting engaged, getting married, and having a baby – all gorgeous, incredible, lovely, wanted, arguably life-changing moments, but not quite as perfect, best-days-of-my-life as I’d somehow thought they would be.
Having spent the guts of five years writing This is Not About You, any release that didn’t involve a full fireworks display, flash mob and crystal dome-style cash whirling around my head was bound to be, if not a disappointment, then just… less than.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve been blown away by the feedback This is Not About You has received. It’s got 4.5 stars on Amazon, 4.4 on Goodreads and 5 on Barnes & Noble (from 3 reviews but that’s not the point).
I was thrilled and overwhelmed and incredibly shocked by the fact that it went straight to number one in the non-fiction charts.
I get messages every day from people who’ve just started, or finished, reading it, sharing their – very relatable and all-too-familiar – stories of dating and romance and breakups and romantic trauma.
But I just thought publishing a book – a bestseller! with great reviews! – would be more… life-changing than it has been. That feels slightly ridiculous to write down, but one thing I managed to hold on to in 2023 is honesty, so here we are.
Mental illness is not a straight line
I’m going to write about this in more detail, but 2023 has been really challenging for me, in terms of my mental health. I started the year feeling as though I’d got a good handle on things; I’d been managing my depression pretty well with medication, and had recently added an anti-anxiety drug to take, as needed, for the random periods of heightened anxiety I’d been feeling in the months after Atlas was born.
But this year has seen more mercurial shifts in my headspace than I’d ever experienced before, and I found them disorienting and frustrating and, at times, they caused me to feel hopeless in a way I hadn’t quite experienced before.
While, previously, my depression would manifest itself in periods – days, sometimes weeks – of low mood and anxiety, this year it happened in terms of hours. One morning, I’d be feeling fine, and later that afternoon I would, seemingly out of nowhere, feel as though I’d been wound up tightly, in an intense rage, entirely on edge and on the verge of screaming, or tears, or both.
It might last through the night and into the next day, or it might not. Nothing felt predictable, or even manageable, in a way it had felt previously.
And it has been dramatic. One day last week, I found myself sobbing on the floor of my kitchen, thinking that my family, my friends, my son, the world, would be better off without me in it; that all I am, is a strain on their resources; that no one should have to suffer through spending time with me, or hearing me moan about my dumb, dumb brain.
The worst thing is, these feelings all seem completely rational in the moment – as though I’ve just had an incredibly smart revelation. It’s only when the dust settles, and I’m coming out of that wave of… I don’t know what to call it, honestly. Anxiety? Nerves? Horror? It’s only when I’m out that I start to think, wow, I really lost the plot yesterday, didn’t I?
I think what I’m trying to say is: I need to find a new therapist, and possibly start doing some actual real, tangible, measurable, hard work on myself. And I was really hoping I was done with all that. I guess we’re never quite done.
The one silver lining is that, when I’m feeling truly overwhelmed with rage, I find cleaning quite therapeutic. My clothes have never been more neatly folded in my life.
Buying things no longer makes me happy
I’ve always had a dirty little consumerist soul, and ever since I discovered, at the age of around 14, the thrill of coming home from town with bags of clothes, I’ve found that few things soothe me more than buying something new.
It didn’t even really have to be for myself. At various times, I’ve tried to soothe a bad mood by buying: gifts for people (sometimes for birthdays, but often for no reason); clothes for the boys; plants; cushions; kitchen appliances; subscriptions; YMCA memberships… you name it, I’ve reached for it in a time when I felt like I needed to be cheered up.
(I’m trying not to make this a shame- or guilt-themed post, but I do realise that this is a truly terrible admission to make, when it comes to the carbon emissions and the state of the world’s landfill and probably myriad other reasons… I realise all of this, and yet I have been an avid shopper for most of my life. I’m nothing if not imperfect.)
This year, though, I finally started to feel… nothing, really, after an online splurge or trip to the “mall” (I cannot say the word “mall” without putting on my best Valley girl accent, and I’m sure that’s very annoying, so, sorry to anyone who has to listen to me).
No matter how cute the toddler outfit, how gorgeous the dress, how perfect the plant… I’ve felt nothing.
This could, obviously, be related to my unpredictable mood, but it might also be a sign of something greater. Maturity?! Surely not. Maybe my desires are just shifting somewhat, and I’ll need to find my comfort elsewhere. (I do keep meaning to get back to my knitting, so maybe 2024 will see me enter my crafting era.)
Gratitude isn’t all sunshine, rainbows and latte art
My sister bought me a gratitude journal and I will admit, I was… puzzled. Me? A gratitude journal? Have we met?
Still, I supposed it fit with her persistence in buying me writing-themed books, notepads and planners – with her determination to enthusiastically encourage me to write more, write better, write often. (That bitch.)
And, though I scoffed at the very notion of it, reading out examples, “I’m grateful for the sandwich my husband made me” and LOLing uproariously at them (maybe my laughs came from a place of knowing, not the Glennon Doyle style knowing, but the normal knowing, that my husband would never make me a sandwich that I’d approve of because the cheese would be sliced too thickly and there would be too much mayonnaise on it and honestly does everything need pickles?!?!)… but this morning – so I will acknowledge that this is a late addition to the 2023 lessons cohort – I sat down to write in it and I struggled.
What am I grateful for? What would make this day great? What affirmations can I write down about myself that are (a) honest and (b) things I wouldn’t mind someone else reading, should this gratitude journal somehow find its way into someone else’s hands?
It has a daily habit tracker, too, and a page for goals – three of them – for the year, side by side with another list, of things that need to be done in order to achieve those goals. I’ve already filled them out, imbued, weirdly, with a sense of optimism and determination (is this what motivation feels like?!) that 2024 might just be the year I achieve what I set out to.
So maybe I am grateful for the journal, and. my sister, after all.
In case you’re interested, this is the journal that’s about to change my life (except on US Amazon it actually has “gratitude journal” written on the front, because Americans aren’t so afraid of their feelings I guess).
Not my worst...but not my best, a lot of ups and downs. Trying to make friends when old is so so hard.
I don't "regret" moving back to Ireland but the adults in our house are at times "lonely".
I'm lucky in that I do enjoy time by myself and I do actually like my husband..but not all the time.
Oh...amd menopause is really really funking hard..like crying tears hard.
Let's hope 2024 improves
2023 was definitely the worst year of my life (so far, to quote that great philosopher Homer Simpson) so I’m determined to see it out the effing door via the consumption of multiple bottles of champagne. I wish you and your family the very best wishes for 2024 Rosemary 💖 PS I devoured your book, it was one of my top reads of 2023 you legend