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The passing of a year always leaves me a little sad. It has taken me years to fully understand just why it saddens me. I’m the type of person that needs to know the ‘why’ even when that means I have to dissect my own psyche.
Twenty years ago, the passage meant that I didn’t have anywhere to party on that night. I have never been much of a partygoer to start with and the added pressure of NYE was too much. Yes, I am aware at how terrible those two sentences are. As the years past, I realized that the end of the year signified what I didn’t do with my time on Earth. Then, the period between Christmas and New Year’s became one of existential searching which ultimately ended in regret and disappointment. This does not even take into account the resolutions that we make. How many times have we started something just to end it and add to the stress we are already dealing with? Though, I did quit smoking cigarettes as part of a New Year’s resolution and have been happily smoke free ever since, but I digress. I started to like this time of year by accident. It happened a few years ago, when I was once again dreading the night and the ball drop. I began to make a list of all the things I did during the year. I started the exercise being angry. I think I did it to show myself that another year had passed and I did nothing and I should be ashamed. Again, I am aware at how terrible that sentence is. I slowly realized instead that when I stopped putting so much stress on myself and became happy with my accomplishments in general, my year was pretty alright. So now, that’s what I do. I know it sounds cheesy as hell but it works. I make sure that I go through the year and make mental notes of the accomplishments I’m proud of. And you know what? If you think you don’t have any accomplishments, then find them. Did you come home each night to a family that was happy to see you? Accomplishment! Were you nicer to the checkout girl than she was to you? Accomplishment! They don’t have to be big to be effective. I’m not stating that my holiday depression is cured. But, it has made me try a little harder during the year to make sure my future self has a good list to compile on December 31st.
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I knew what I signed up for when I adopted them. I knew I would have to love them from a far. But, I thought I lived in an area where they were safe. A place where they didn’t want to wonder too far. They have everything here; shelter, fresh water, fresh food, a large field next door, a large yard to call their own, and most recently, a big deck for them to lounge around on and be lazy. Unfortunately, all of it wasn’t enough for my littlest girl and I couldn’t keep her safe. Cloe was gone for a few days before I started to worry. She was feral after all. If I worried every time they didn’t come when dinner was served, I’d never sleep. After the fourth day, I began to alert people to her absence. I reached out to our local animal control officer, an organization that helps reunite lost cats with their families and anyone else that would listen. I posted flyers, went door to door looking for my baby and, of course, I began crying. My girl used to spend a lot of time with a neighbor cat. She would stay with him and hang out in his shed. The owner of this cat was happy to have Cloe spend time at his house. He even made a cat haven out of his shed for his cat and his new found buddy. I stopped by this neighbor’s house to ask if he had seen Cloe. That’s when he gave me the bad news. She was hit by a car. She had a large gash in her head. My sweet neighbor took her tiny body and buried her in the backyard. Instead of calling animal control, which would have just disposed of her body, he took my little girl and gave her respect and love in the end. But now it’s hard to deal with the after. Her father and sister still need to be cared for. It’s hard to feed them. My mind goes to little Cloe fighting her sister for a bowl of food. Even though I always put enough for both. It’s hard to go to the shed. She would always jump up on the shelf and say hello. I just…miss her terribly. I’m sure I don’t want to write about it anymore.  |
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