It's Not The End Of The World (It Just Feels Like It)
Oof, I hate an ending. If I’m really enjoying a book I won’t read the last few pages for weeks and weeks to delay the inevitable sting that comes with something you love being over. I can’t tell you the amount of concerts I’ve been practically the last person at, just trying to soak up those last few moments, loitering around the barrier. I’ll even stop the microwave before it beeps, I just hate things ending so much, particularly if they’re not finishing on my terms. So, with the end of the year rapidly approaching, I’m feeling that ending melancholia I knew was coming but am never quite prepared for. The thought of new light breaking over the horizon on the first of January fills me with an almost insurmountable dread. I hate having to start again, in a year that I know nothing about, when this year was so good. The notion of going through the motions of January and February, the summer starting to cool and sliding into those darker days of Autumn makes me want to dig my nails into 2018 and hold on for dear life (hi, I’m Maz and I’m terrible at letting things go). Mostly, I hate having to say goodbye to the people and things which made 2018 my best yet, a year which brought me little more than pure joy, delivering me new people who I now can’t imagine life without and emotions I’ve either never felt, or at least haven’t felt for a long time. This is all word vomited with the caveat that I’ve seen, either close up, at a distance through social media or over message, a lot of people I know have a terrible year. I’ve seen the loss of husbands and babies, divorces and financial loss, so I count myself lucky to be seeing this year out only sad at leaving behind the glorious, rather than clamouring for a new year in order to forget a shitshow. And I want to share with you my incredibly flawed process by which I work through my pain and disdain at endings (and any and all heartaches for that matter). And of course, all hints and tips about how you heal your own hurts are much appreciated, especially if they include drugs which you are willing to share with me but are also metabolised in a way that I can still breastfeed my child, because I don’t have the spare cash for formula (thanks Christmas!)
Thinking about it
Boy, am I good at thinking about things. If there were a prize for thinking about things for the longest amount of time and twisting those thoughts every way possible in my mind in order to squeeze out the largest amount of suffering and hurt one thought can inflict, then I would probably win that prize. I need to dwell super hard on shit to get past it. I need to be so deeply enveloped by thoughts that I go quiet and get asked a million times “What’s wrong? Are you ok?” by my long suffering husband who rightly doesn’t understand how I could be so upset that someone forgot they met me once or called me “too social”. When chatting to a friend the other day she mentioned that she does a thing called “splitting”, where in your mind you turn on a dime and try to convince yourself you hate someone or something you loved just moments ago to save yourself from the inevitable hurt of losing that person or thing. Well CHECK! I'm a splitter!! Let’s get to hating 2018 and everything in it, shall we?
Drinking about it
As the end of the year rapidly approaches, peppered with small emotional thorns in my side; relationships changing or drawing to a close, my brother’s birthday (he’s a drug addict and when I remember he exists I temporarily feel the deep loss it is not to have that functioning fourth member of my family), the Christmas gifts and cards from friends that, in turn, remind me what an awful friend I am, my kids growing up too quickly… I want a stiff drink. I’ve spent the majority of this year pregnant, so I’ve given myself carte blanche with the booze now the year is drawing to a close (within breastfeeding reason). So far this has resulted in a drunk Instagram story with a photo of me pumping milk at a wedding and an accompanying poll as to whether or not I should drink my own boozey milk (I did, It was delicious), a vast array of pity likes and weird comments on social media and long, rambling poems, written in my diary that are lame and weird (“Ode to a Walnut”, “Nomenclature of Shirts” and a parody version of Ice T’s 6 in the Morning). I don’t know if drinking ever helps fix pain, but it sure does numb it good when you’ve done your dash thinking about said pain.
Running about it
I’ve always found running meditative. Just the sound of my little feet hitting the dirt rhythmically, taking me to another world where I’m alone with my thoughts is so comforting. More often than not my footsteps echo one name or idea that I need to work through as I run, and by the time I’m done I feel at least marginally better about it. I don’t really run on roads, being more inclined towards tracks and trails, and being immersed in the local bushland soothes the absolute shit out of my soul. The distinct smell of the wet sandstone, the constant fear I have of stepping on a snake that gives me some super duper alertness, trotting past little puddles surrounded by Drosera like strange, red circle animals around a water hole, the dust or the mist or the clouds of flies rolling in reminding me that every day is a different day… All this crap plus endorphins and burning all those calories means there is little running can’t do to help me work through anything and everything in my life.
Writing about it
I am a voracious writer. All of these blog posts are basically just excerpts from my diary, with a heavy edit of the juicy stuff. I’m not saying I write a lot of porny stuff, but I’m not saying I don’t either. Writing serves so many purposes in alleviating the day to day hurts I experience and helping me come to terms with the things I don’t want to deal with. Firstly, writing lets me live in a fantasy world, writing down not only what has happened in my life but what I wish happened. I find it strangely soothing, rewriting the ending of an interaction or experience; sometimes I make the ending smutty, sometimes I make the other person die, but mostly we’re all happy and you love me forever. Secondly, it was pointed out to me recently that some people write so they can go back to a moment in time and reaffirm it was real and CHECK CHECK, this is absolutely why I write. I’m not sure how common this is, but for me, silence breeds discontent. Not on my end, but when I’ve had radio silence with someone I automatically assume I was wrong about how they felt, what they said or their attitude, with my mind defaulting the to the idea that that person likes me far less than I’d originally thought, the moment wasn’t as special to them as it was to me and that I’m just needy and insane. When I write down special moments I have with my friends and family, then I can go back and live in that moment again, reassuring myself that I am loved. Thirdly, writing (and particularly publishing things here) is cathartic in a way I can’t describe. I know that it’s narcissistic as shit, and of course I partly write for the kudos (I DO love me some kudos), but when I get a message from a friend I haven’t heard from in a while saying “same here” I feel less alone in my pain or weird habit or the sneaking suspicion I have that I’m actually the worst person in the world. Publicly publishing your thoughts too, gives you the opportunity to tell people things you’re too scared to tell them to their face, I like to think of this as “semaphore writing” and it allows me to be both kinder and meaner than I’d ever be in life.
Also, if I die, maybe these blogs will allow some Black Mirror type robot to be built in my memory that sports a good approximation of my personality so I can digitally haunt you all for eternity.
Singing about it
I’m pretty sure I’ve been seen (and heard) at traffic lights no less than ten times, wailing along to a song and weeping my little heart out. When I see people, seeing me doing this I DO NOT STOP. I practice crying prettily until they move along and then I transition back to ugly snot crying as the space opens up between us. Grief for me has a sound, and that sound is the off key karaokeing of early noughties ballads and R&B bangers. I average a seriously good sing/cry a month, my most recent sesh being yesterday. Top songs to sing out my sadness to include, but are not limited to:
Mariah Carey’s We Belong Together
H.E.R I’m Not Ok
Frank Ocean Thinking of You
Eminem Stan
Bruce Springsteen The River
Very often I get through this process and feel no better, only having succeeded in creeping out fellow road users and writing an abundance of untrue, salacious things about my friends and family in my diary, but at least I tried. Feel free to give these five (conveniently rhyming and alliterated) steps a go yourself, and if they don’t work, know that I feel your pain and will happily lend you the $2.29 to buy a screamy Mariah Carey song from iTunes to help get you through your holiday moroseness.