Goodbye, 2018

Hope is being able to see that there is light, despite all the darkness. — Desmond Tutu

Many people I know are celebrating — no, acknowledging, that’s better —  the fact that they survived 2018. Their accomplishments — compared to the Herculean task of merely functioning in a year so dark — are secondary, at best. I get this, do I ever. Perched over my keyboard in the bleakness of this December morning, it feels miraculous to have again hit the ‘on’ button, to have opened a connection to the world. How much easier to turn the lights off and crawl back in to bed. It is stormy outside, the wind bumps up against the side of the house, Harley the Dog is curled up small and snoring in his own blanket. It seems foolish not to follow his lead. Instead I have coffee and set myself the task of looking for some light in the past 12 months.

I crossed two major rivers this past year. Please forgive me while I run this metaphor right into the ground.

The first, in January, was when I got help for what had been finally diagnosed as “severe recurring depression.” I’d been diagnosed with situational depression before (when things suck and you’re having a hard time dealing for a while). This is different, and requires meds and management and doesn’t go away just because the situation has remedied. Slogging across that dark, cold, river to easier waters has made a tremendous difference in my daily life.

In September, the part of my brain that’s good at work finally came back online, and with that lit up again, a whole lot of anxiety washed downstream. I am much, much better now, though I will freely admit there are still some very hard days. I find therapy patchy in its effectiveness, medication helpful but annoying in its side effects, and the fact that I’m not drowning in despair a, uh, marked improvement over last year.

Honestly, I want a sash that says “You Got Help for Your Suffering and Survived 2018, You’re Amazing,” something with a lot of empire style medals and ribbons, but that’s too many words for a sash. Anyone who’s suffering from depression and managed to survive the absolute shitshow that was 2018 — especially my politically aware British and American friends — deserves the same.

I also wrote a book. A whole fucking book. I have been writing around the edges of this thing for a few years now but sometime late in the spring, I waded into and three months later I had 70,000 words (the target is 70-90k for a manuscript). I wouldn’t say it was effortless; I stalled out shortly before 50,000 words and had to stop for a few weeks, but thanks to some excellent advice, I was able to finish, and add a better ending.

Writer friends have asked how I did it. It was simple — but let’s be clear, that’s not the same thing as easy. I got up every morning and before anything else, I wrote 500 words. Some days I had things to do and stopped when the counter hit 500, other days, I was free and kept going until I didn’t feel like writing anymore. Some days I wrote twice a day, once in the morning, once in the evening, and I never got up unless the counter was at a multiple of 500. I had two goals: hit the word count for a first book and write until the end. I didn’t allow myself to look back until I got beached on a sandbar, and even then, I waited to see if the tide would rise. I did not rush, there was no point.

By August, I’d also finished my book proposal and have been pitching agents ever since. It’s going… badly. Nothing but rejections. You think writing a book is hard, try finding an agent. It sucks. And it sucks for reasons I didn’t expect. It sucks because a quarter of the rejections have been very personal and full of praise for my story and my skill as a writer, but they don’t think they can sell my work. The canned rejections are easier to take because they’re not personal. I will persist, but this part is turning out to be harder than writing the book. It’s crazy.

Honestly, I want a sash that says, “OMG You Got Help for Depression and Survived 2018 and ON TOP OF ALL THAT YOU WROTE A FUCKING BOOK? YOU ARE A GODDAMNED SUPERHERO,” perhaps delivered at a knighting ceremony performed by Madeleine Albright or Ruth Bader Ginsburg, but not only is that too many words, I think they are both very busy fighting fascism, something they should not have to do at their advanced ages, but thank you, badass women of the American landscape. Anyone who managed to survive 2018 and produce creative work of any kind deserves the same level of recognition, find and replace “you wrote a fucking book” with your work for the year.

Oh, right. Also, I wrote some stories, walked some dogs, my band broke up on absolutely the best of terms. I went to Elko, Nevada for the Cowboy Poetry Festival and I stayed in a super luxurious yurt in the San Juan Islands and I spent three weeks in Hawaii and subsequently wrote a really good story that comes out next year. I landed a great new tech client in September. I got a flu shot, and three waffle irons as gifts. I lost the extra pounds I’d put on from eating my depression feelings. I walked 1000 miles, thank you Harley the Dog.

Honestly, I want a sash. I found these awesome merit badge patterns on Etsy and it seems like I could buy a whole set and make my own fucking sash. If 2018 is any indicator of future performance, that seems as good a tactic for facing 2019 as any.