Last year, I stood in a circle with friends and celebrated the turning of the year, ritually looking to the future and divesting myself of those things that I’d prefer to leave behind.
Funny how things turn out.
The things I wished to leave behind are still here. I made no progress at all towards finishing a novel or getting it sold. (Of course, the period from my diagnosis in January until my all-clear in July did have something to do with why the year was pretty much a wash in that regard. My mind was elsewhere.)
Instead, I was divested of friends. Some in the big, dramatic fashion — where lines are crossed and never mended. Others, perhaps even more depressingly, just never bother to make the effort. If we see them, we’re the ones who have to make the plans, or we’re the ones who have to travel, or we’re the ones who have to think of calling. At what point do you just give up, and say “these aren’t friends, these are acquaintences of convenience?”
The past year, frankly, has sucked ass. I’m tired.
I’m not planning on any ritual tonight. The last one didn’t work out so well.
