Dear friend,
22 and I had a very complicated, rocky relationship. By that, I mean both the year and my age during most of it. There were days when I felt like I was on top of the world, when I firmly believed that I could make it in life as an artist, surrounded by love and positivity, be someone that my younger self would love and look up to, and there were days when I was lying on the floor of my bedroom, crying, barely able to think about the next morning.
Many new faces entered my life and a good handful walked out too. There have been some lives I’ve left behind too, believing it to be the best decision for everyone. Throughout 22, my heart gained a handful of scratches, some of which are already healing but the rest could leave behind ugly scars that might not fade away in this lifetime. I’ve made some wonderful memories the past year that I will do everything in my power to preserve against the slippery tide of time. But there are also memories that require shopping for the world’s largest metaphorical eraser. Or numerous hours of therapy. Based on whichever doesn’t burn a hole into my wallet.
Looking back, the last couple of months are a complete blur. Both my mental and physical health took severe hits from which I’m still recovering. My spirit was often broken, more times than I could count with my fingers but I like to think it was reshaped too. Because I’m still here, fighting for a chance in this rat race called life.
So I’m not sure if 2022 was my year as I’m still reeling from its sucker punches. The worst part is, I took out my anger and hurt on my loved ones, which I clearly shouldn’t have done. They’re upset with me and it’s understandable. I’m not proud of the way I behaved when I was at rock bottom; I’ll always regret it.
Maybe one day, I’ll look back and be thankful for all the lessons that 22 gave me. That day is not today but I’m looking forward to meeting it. Until then, I hope everyone I’ve hurt so far can forgive me.
In the meantime, I’m trying to hold on, keep my head above water and let 23 be my year. But so far, it has given me mixed signals too.
For a good portion of January, I’ve been sick with a bad cold that has left me cooped up in my room. I spend the middle of the nights drowsy yet wide awake, coughing up like an old man with TB, keeping the thieves away with my loud quests for oxygen. This process leaves my throat dry and full of wounds that the next morning, I’d wake up coughing some more and spit out some of the B+ blood that is supposed to stay on the inside of my body.
As if this wasn’t enough, I went ahead, slipped on some water and hurt my back one afternoon. Ever since, I’ve been able to barely sit, stand, lie down or basically do anything without wincing.
The way I walk around the house looks very similar to the way my 87-year-old grandpa does. So that’s saying something.
But thanks to the meds my doctor gave me, I spent the next day sleeping around 13 hours on and off, so the pain has subsided little by little, leaving me in a mood good enough to make jokes about the whole thing. So I thought, before life hits me in the face like a truck again, I’d send out a newsletter, checking up on you all while also reminding you of my hilariously miserable existence.
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve gotten back to writing letters to friends, some by hand and some by typing away into the Gmail or Slowly apps. This reminded me of how much I love and miss the whole process of not just letter writing but also writing in general. It’s such a therapeutic process, especially when your mind is a bowl of cold soupy noodles from which you cannot separate one strand of cognitive thought from another. Writing helps you make sense of yourself and the world. You get to put one word after the next, slowly separating all those spaghetti strands, weaving them into new, interesting and exciting patterns until you’ve woven yourself a silk tapestry that depicts magical and beautiful stories that most importantly, make sense to the viewer. Now you can stand back, take it all in and marvel at what your mind had to say.
One of my important goals for this year is to write more. Letters to friends and family, poems that for the life of me will not have a proper rhyme scheme, personal essays that spill my guts onto the Substack floor for anyone willing enough to read and so on. I hope to write enough so that I won’t hesitate before calling myself a writer anymore. And hopefully, by the end of it, I could come up with a collection, or say a book, full of my words for the few that love my work to use as a space to make sense of who we are as people.
I was planning to release a collection of my poems for paid subscribers by the end of ‘22 but I couldn't bring it to reality. While I’m still working on it, I need your support emotionally and financially. If you’re looking for a freelance copywriter, photographer or artist, keep my friendly face in mind. Or if you thought this rambling session of mine was fun to read, then buy me a coffee. Or pay my college fees for the next semester. Whichever choice you choose, I’m fine with it.
Also, this isn’t a one-way conversation. You can tell me about the ways 2022 was or was not your year in the comments section. We can hate our lives together!
With many coughs and cough syrups,
A. 🌻
2022 felt like two different year for me! Jan to march was a different year from April to December! Learnt many things and at the same time forgot many things!! 😂
Looking back...I realise that I explored so many new things in 2022. It was a rollercoaster for me.