Trust That Transformation is Happening
The Momentum of Time, Resolutions, and Determination for the New Year
The Momentum of Time, Resolutions, and Determination for the New Year
I wrapped my favorite fleece blanket around my shoulders, slipped my slides over my insulated socks, and made my way out the patio door, frozen in its track even though we had had unseasonably warm temps through the Holidays this year. In the warmth of my faithful blanket, I made my way to the deck that overlooked our backyard, still dirt and sand from the addition we added to our home, and continued to put the finishing touches on.
We had shared our New Year’s kiss in the kitchen while getting ready for bed, surprised that we even made it up until Midnight, but I had wanted to see the New Year roll in. The holidays were finally over, taking my joyless demeanor with it. For me, New Year’s always held a profound significance even though January 1st always came without any express or visible change.
It was shortly after midnight as I smoked my last cigarette of the night, but the first one of the new year. Obviously, I had not made any resolution to quit. I don’t make resolutions, although I do understand the essence and advantage of making them, if they’re stuck to. The beginning of a New Year is a relevant time for the reflection that evokes them, but I only take part in the reflection process which generally brings about personal growth despite having a distinct declaration of an earth-shattering shift in my habitual way of being.
My life had transformed plenty enough over the last few years to intentionally throw myself into another one. My resolution, I suppose then, was to heal from the perpetual reconstruction of my life and the emergent deterioration of my well-being that has resulted from it. Real healing through the re-conditioning of my thought processes and a re-discovery of that elusive happiness we all journey through life looking for.
I looked down to the world below, to the same street I had lived on for nearly 18 years. The LED lights lining my fence flickered from the lack of sunlight juicing up my solar panel, as did the street light, engulfing the road in darkness as it did sporadically every night. I wished it would just burn out and stay that way. I liked the dark it brought.
I remembered back to New Year’s Eve roughly 12 years ago when I stood underneath that same street light at midnight watching large snowflakes sparkle as they fell to my feet, already buried in the packed snow on the ground. Alone that New Year’s Eve after admitting an adulterous affair to my then-husband, that moment watching the snowfall penetrated me with a complex and mystifying understanding although I didn’t know what that understanding was yet. I didn’t need to know at that moment, but I knew that my life was on a collision course with my aspirations in existence and finding meaning in it all.
From my deck, I looked towards the neighbor’s house across the street. They had outdoor decorations for every season and holiday, which were exchanged like clockwork in their own habitual ways. Christmas lights still lined their front bay window which was adorned with festive evergreens in window baskets, each with a large red bow. Their little white dog peered through the curtains as usual, watching the nothingness that was happening outside in contentment. Their interchangeable flag still displayed the reds and greens of the yuletide as it fluttered in the cold breeze that was making its way in.
Nothing had changed at the stroke of midnight. I wasn’t expecting it to. The uninterrupted momentum of the clock continued, second by second, minute by minute, just as its hands always have.
“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when we look back everything is different.” — C.S. Lewis
The revelation that the stroke of midnight brings on New Year’s Eve is hidden in personal mystery, exclusive to individual perception of the world and self, instigating an alteration in how we interpret it all. Or, that’s the encouragement we are supposed to encounter in any regard, however, it’s not the clearest or most uncomplicated thing to attain without making empty promises to ourselves.
Resolutions are meant for personal growth, alterations to our health, and setting goals to chase. Somewhere within every human lies the ability to be a better person, whether to yourself, your loved ones, or your community. The ability is there, it’s the awareness of this ability that is lost and the reason some can never seem to flourish beyond their current circumstances.
The New Year shines a light on this ability and illuminates within us, an uncanny motivation to harness it. A fresh start and a glimpse into the future while we challenge ourselves to abandon the past and let go of the perplexities that have held us back. This is also why resolutions like losing weight, quitting a bad habit, or getting more sleep don’t last. The illumination of the New Year loses its glimmer as we return to the hum-drum of day-to-day life and eventually fades out completely.
This year, I will not allow that glimmer to fade and I encourage you to do the same.
“They always say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself” — Andy Warhol
As mentioned, my resolution is not to bring about a specific change this year, but paradoxically, to regain the passion for life that I have lost as a result of change. That moment of reflection on my deck crystallized my determination much like the snow crystallized around my feet 12 years ago in a twinkling of rumination, not knowing then that standing alone in a snowstorm that year would lead me to where I am today.
The events that came to pass since that snowfall damaged me on a profound level, altering the very being that I am. Last year, I added the terms “trauma” and “victim” to my personal vocabulary. They are words that I fought against, denied, disbelieved, and negated. Those words were not me… until they were and I had to accept them.
You see, throughout those years, my clock stopped. Time moved, but I didn’t, not on the level of personal advancement, anyway. I was a stopped clock who spent that dormant time at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. I was oppressed, gaslighted, abused, and manipulated through the remainder of my marriage, and it slowly destabilized my psyche and annihilated my inner self. I was exploited with lies, forced upon me with coercion until I believed them myself… and I didn’t even realize it was happening until the woman I had been was replaced by a misrepresented version of myself that someone else created. I should have left him that year, 12 years prior, the snow told me so, but I didn’t and in those years I stayed, he destroyed me.
As I sat on my deck, smoking my first cigarette of the new year and looking out on the unchanged world, I recalled the day that my current husband and I built this deck, an outdoor extension of the master suite we had constructed over the garage we had also built… all with our own two hands. The demolition of the old garage had been emancipating for me. The old, rotting wood reminded me of my old rotting marriage and the persistent fighting, drinking, and chain smoking that had occurred under its roof. I operated the crowbar and sledgehammer as if I were knocking down my past.
I was sober now, 4 years, 3 months, and 18 days to be exact. We had quit drinking together, my new husband and I, sometime after he and his 3 kids moved in with me. A monumental furtherance in our relationship and the lives of our kids. I was full of excitement when moving day came, my life was progressing forward again on a path of my own determination and I wanted nothing more, but as I look back now, I think that was one of the last times I felt excitement for anything. My vice was gone and my trauma was coming for me.
In hindsight, getting sober probably should have come before moving day. Our judgment was clouded then, our individual recoveries from broken and loveless marriages were being dissolved in alcohol, not in resolution. That is no way to start a committed relationship let alone, a family with kids from different upbringings, contrasting fundamentals, and each looking for acceptance and their place in all of it.
We were six months sober when COVID hit. Neither one of us had our liquid comfort anymore and were fighting our own personal battles while trying to manage our awkwardly adjusting children and nourishing our relationship at the same time.
The feeling of time moving forward slowed once again. I felt out of place, unwanted in my own home, alone in crowded rooms. Happiness had been creeping its way back, where did it go? All over again, I felt as though my life wasn’t mine anymore, I was codependent. I became an accommodating passenger in his life and still held the presupposition that I didn’t matter. I never regained the part of me that was stolen in my previous marriage… the part of me that told me I was valuable and to care for myself. I had begun looking for that in my new husband instead of within myself.
Even though I had presumed I was on a path to better days, I was actually losing myself more even though I now had the relationship and family that I had envisioned.
I never did pick up a drink, but I picked up every bottle of supplements that claimed to reduce stress or provide a calming sense. I ate them like candy. A concoction of pills did not raise my arms in defense against my crisis, but I continued to take them.
I lost my Dad, my rock, my wisdom giver. I grieved alone and continue to nurse that wound, not yet cauterized. I became an adult orphan the day he died. An orphan once again… my existence as an adoptee metamorphosed into desperation to find my organic roots, locked away in a file somewhere.
I began experiencing hot flashes, and mood swings and stopped getting my period for a few months. I’m perimenopausal. More pills. More disappointment with no reassurance.
I practiced mindfulness, but it made the entirety of my situation worsen. How can I be mindful when it races in catastrophic circles? All mindfulness ever did was make me pity myself followed by a verdict of deserving every terrible thing I was feeling.
I began losing weight. I never had an appetite. Where I got my energy for all this personal mind fucking is beyond me. It was all negative energy, I emanated it. I hated myself. Even more so, I hated feeling like a burden to others. For the first time in my life, I cursed the permanence of my existence, and visualizations of ending the longevity began to intrude. Anything would be better than feeling this way, but I understood the pain of loss too well and would not consign to leaving further misery. I knew that wasn’t the answer either.
I made a phone call that I never thought I would make and scheduled myself for counseling. My husband had success after we got sober and he’s made strides in his recovery. A recovery that, in all honesty, I envy him for, so maybe just maybe it would do the same for me. I had to become humble, vulnerable, and strong on a level that I did not yet comprehend. I needed healing and took a leap of faith that cognitive therapy may be advantageous to lift me from the crisis I have found myself in.
I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of ADHD, anxiety, depression, and PTSD.
There is much more to explore in these diagnoses, to peel apart layer by layer like an onion. However, I am confident that I will persevere through these deep explorations of my psyche even though I remain unsettled in my conviction that my current, unbalanced disposition will perpetually disenchant my connections to others. My treatment plan is complex, but the establishment of one and my agreement to follow the path set in front of me was my first step in a long process of rectification and growth.
I snuffed my cigarette out in the ashtray that sat on the gas firepit we splurged on a few months ago. As I walked back through the patio door to our newly constructed master suite, I paused and surveyed the work we had done. I felt a wave of satisfaction wash over me, accomplishment, and a devotedness to the commitment that it represented.
Nothing changed at the stroke of midnight, but as I deconstructed my prevailing sufferings, I caught a glimpse of gratitude in the transformations that I have already circumvented. Change had been persistent the entire time. Life moved, our children grew, our relationship evolved, milestones were met, and progression happened all around me.
It was me who was stuck, but I found a glimmer of hope in those first moments of this New Year and it is the encouragement I feel from that hope that I make my resolution. Transformation happens continuously, just like the clock with its uninterrupted momentum that moves us through life and we must continuously transform with it, or at the very least, acknowledge it.
If losing weight is your goal this year, it’s not going to happen overnight, but rather, over a period of time. Trust that transformation is happening.
If quitting a bad habit is your resolve, it’s going to take time to slight the impulses, and even more time to heal the underlying causation of it. Trust that transformation is happening.
If your resolution is like mine, being a non-resolution, but rather a determination to persevere through mental illness, trauma, and personal growth…
Trust that transformation is happening.
