You know those sci-fi films where the characters go to sleep and then wake up 300 years later confused that everything around them is jarringly different? Where they spent years blissfully ignorant of the passing of time. And then they open their eyes and get a sense of displacement, like they know in their core that they’re not supposed to be in the picture anymore. January felt like that to me – except for the part where I’m awake for most of it. Conscious but not quite there.
Time faded into the background and the whole month felt like a week spent grappling for some semblance of sanity and desperately building the foundation for the rest of the year. Without realizing it, thinking I had all the time in the world, my days blurred together in one hot mess and now we’re two weeks into February.
January felt like that whirlwind one week lover who decided to dump me into February’s couch and that was that. Not to say that January wasn’t a considerate lover. In many ways, he was. He made me feel alive. Gave me perspective. Kind when I wasn’t kind to myself.
And now, I’m facing the month in the same dress I fucked January with; my hair a bird’s nest, skin still bruised with kisses, and a hollow feeling, like an integral part of me was ripped from my insides.
I started the year wanting – setting goals, looking forward to self-love and growth, plans for independence and full control. One month later, I’m typing this, feeling defeated despite my efforts.
I guess, a huge part of it stems from the feeling that I did so little when I had so much planned. I psyched myself to much. I did accomplish a few things but I didn’t meet the timeline I set for myself and I’m behind schedule. It’s wearing my heart down. And I feel like a huge disappointment.
It’s tempting to sleep through the year again; to live the way I lived between 2012 and 2015.
I spent three years sleeping and missing out, hidden in my hermit cave, under blankets and pillows, purposefully ignoring the world, consequences be damned.
Sometimes I wonder if given the chance to put myself in cryogenic sleep, will I do it? Do I want to wake up 500 years into the future?
Pros: All my previous problems have died along with the people I don’t want to deal with or see.
Cons: I’d probably be alone and faced with even more grueling problems with no tools to slay them with.
The weak parts of me would love to jump on that offer in a heartbeat. Who wouldn’t want to start with a clean slate? A do over in life? That 1-UP mushroom from Super Mario that gets you to restart?
Damn it. I can’t do it though. Because a.) cryogenic sleep is expensive and not a guaranteed science and b.) I need stop being a wuss.
I need to learn how to deal with my life without running away. I spent too much time avoiding every inconvenience, every hurdle, and my soul is exhausted. It takes a different kind of strength to willfully deal with life. Fuck you, Camus.
So I’m gonna have to promise myself to still keep at it. To give the year my honest and best effort. And I fail even when I truly tried, I’ll take it as a lesson learned and still move forward.
I’m not known for keeping my promises and I could hardly trust myself to keep my own word but I’ll try.
Now, I’m getting off the couch and knocking on February’s bedroom door, asking if I can use the bathroom and a hand to hold because I still can’t do this alone.
I’m not referencing Interstellar btw. I haven’t seen it and I don’t plan on watching it. I’m more of a Khan Noonien Singh girl in the Star Trek reboot kind of gal really.
** featured image from static.pexels.com