A lot of us would consider 2016 to be one of the worst years in memorable history. We've seen questionable election practices, questionable characters take power in shaping the new face of our government, war and turmoil and suffering all across the world in record numbers, and many iconic losses of beloved figures.
But I can't help noticing how these tribulations seem reflective of what is happening in a lot of our lives on a smaller, more personal scale. We have unemployment, debt, depression, anxiety, wars raging within our own worlds, major losses of loved ones, security and our senses of self...for so many people, 2016 has been one hell of a tumultuous year. And I cannot discount myself from that number. No matter how much I might wish I could. But the truth is, in retrospect, I don't think I would.
2016 has been hell for me. I'm not going to lie. I have struggled with some pretty hefty emotional pain, ridiculously stressful situations and violent adjustments to the way I have always functioned as a human being. If it could have gone wrong, if it could have ripped me open, it did.
When I really examine its effects, 2016 has rendered the impossible. It has managed to do something that no other year could accomplish for me - not even with the loss of my beloved little brother in 2012. And for those who know me, you'd think that would have done it. But no. The fact is, 2016 utterly broke me. Or maybe I should say it broke "Me"... as in the me that I was. The more invulnerable, less authentic me. The one ruled by fear masked in pride.
The one who, in all her years, had never really experienced being in love. Not really. The one who, in all her years, had never really, trustingly given in to her own passion. The "Me" who had never felt so low as to succumb to the admission of her own humanity, her mortal flaws and her deep need for others. The one who could never ask for help. The one who feared for the roof over her head. Before 2016, I was fortified by a costume wall. I thought I was open, I thought I was real, and I was - with and for the needs of others. But as for my own? That took the efforts of a powerful and raging year that followed on the heels of the pain come before it. It took a mighty, fiery angel of misery to make me cry out for help.
2016 has exposed me to the point of no return. It's transformative in all its terrible glory, the way it has shaped - or maybe just forcibly uncovered me from under "Me". When I'm sad, I cry. I do that a lot in fact. And when I am angry, I show it. When I need to be held - I ask. And when I am jealous, and insecure, and afraid - I show those as well. Because 2016 has forced me to feel these things in great measure. It's ripped open my skin and tipped out my insides. And some things, once they are out, can never go back in. Some guts will always be exposed. There are a few beloved souls I trust to really see my heart now in all of its bleeding, beating imperfection. I need people. 2016 has broken my spirit enough that I can no longer get by the same way. It has presented me with villains and saviors one in the same. It has presented me with the raw, the real, and the undiluted me. And it is frightening, SO frightening. It requires giving up control, it requires vulnerable trust. Its rewards are risky and awful and shocking and beautiful.
If 2016 hadn't taken away every means of hiding it, I would still be encasing my truest humanity in a suit of armor. But then I wouldn't have been loved. Not the way I needed to feel it. And I wouldn't have met the me that I'm not always so crazy about. The real me. I wouldn't have met her so I could make peace with her. And ask her forgiveness for hiding her away so long.
In all dark and painful things they say there is a gift beyond measure. I think I'm just starting to unravel mine. So thanks, 2016. You merciless bastard. I am wrecked, I am uncovered, and I am changed.