Almost everyone I know is ready to say goodbye to 2009. (You know, the kind of goodbye you wave with your middle finger.) I can’t say I disagree. The pain and loss I’ve experienced this year certainly threatens to overshadow the joys. The pain and loss suffered by dear friends of mine is enough to take my breath away.
But I’m not going to write the year off as a total waste.
Earlier this year I finally figured out what “FML” stood for. (Now I giggle when I see it, thinking about how Anissa and I would say “fuck me loud” and “fuck me long” to each other after a friend guessed that that was what it meant.)
FML stands for “fuck my life.” It’s always used in a funny way, but I’ve always hesitated to say it. Call it superstition.
(Never say you hate something, my mom said. Hate is a strong, horrible word.)
I love my life. I’m learning to love my life more every day. I’m learning to live without fear. I hesitate to even joke saying FML, because seriously? My life could be worse. It could, in any instant, become worse. Being part of a huge community online has exposed me to horrific loss and tragedy. Especially this year.
Being part of a huge community has also consistently exposed me to mundane, everyday suffering. A child with croup. An entire family with the flu. A minor car accident. A broken water pipe. A dead hard drive. A poop in the bathtub.
There’s nothing like a poop in someone’s bathtub to make you reflect on the good things in your life.
Every time I’m tempted to say FML, I get this brief twinge and I stop. This weird reaction inside me sets off that eventually calms me down. Yeah this really does suck right now, but at least it sucks in a somewhat funny way and man, it could suck a lot worse.
Most of my son’s first year of life took place in 2009. Thanks to newborn-to-infant-to-toddler, the year has been a blur. A dizzying, beautiful blur. When my Grandpa became unexpectedly ill and died after a month in the hospital, my son’s constant, unquestioning need kept me anchored to myself. His uncomplicated babyhood gave me comfort even as it reminded me, night after night, what I had to lose. Reminded me what my friends had lost.
No matter what has happened each day, my three-year-old has been there. Challenging me and pushing me and asking me, every night, without fail, for a hug and a kiss. Goodnight, Mamabird. Goodnight, Babybird.
When my mom was misdiagnosed with cancer over the summer, the friends I’d made online showed me how instant and how real “Internet” support could be. When we found out she was fine a few days later, my friends talked me through my embarrassment and helped me focus on our relief.
We will always experience darkness and light. My therapist reminds me to think of the Ying Yang, to recall that the path we walk crosses from good to bad, from bad to good.
This year has not been kind, but the chiming of the clock at midnight is just the passing of a day. Next year might be worse. Next year might be better.
I don’t usually make resolutions, but right now it’s important to me to stand firm and present in a hopeful place. I’ve held fear too close for too long. I’ve cultivated it, nestled in the perverse comfort of familiarity.
It’s very, very difficult for me to break away from fear. Even my resistance to say FML is born in a weird sort of fear. When I find comfort in the thought of balance I think, things have been good—will they get bad?
What a waste. What a waste of joy and peace.
I know that these words aren’t wards against fear. But I’m putting them here to make it real, to mark my accountability, to bolster my resolve.
So, 2009, you’re on notice but you’re not completely fired. When the ball drops and 2010 begins as just another day, I will murmur a quick fuck you—not to 2009, but to fear. And I will try, and try, and try, to nurture hope. Every day.
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