So this is the new year.

I was going to write an ode to 2009, even though I left it with a general and inexplicable feeling of discontent. And then 2010 came over and bitchslapped me, so I decided I’d talk a little about that first.

New Year’s Eve was a blur of wine, discussions about the sex of goldfish crackers, makeup, glitter, shots from a glass with feet (yep), those ever-so-serious drunk conversations you tend to have with long-lost friends, dancing, kisses, mini-pizzas, and promises to stay in touch in the coming year. All in all, a lovely, low-key celebration of a year that brought me some of the most life-altering experiences I’ve been lucky enough to have, gristle-tough as they may have been.

And then: dropped bombs. Financial outlook went from moderate to bleak, and staying afloat became a matter of how quickly I could crush every minor luxury I had worked to afford in the last two years. I began to question the sanity and soundness of my decision to afford myself weekends. Another form of income dropped off the planet at the exact wrong moment. My boyfriend’s band’s trailer was stolen. We might have to move, without warning. Many of my authors at work grew insanely crotchety and miserly, all together, as though they had planned a siege, leaving me with missed deadlines and no budgets or time.

And right here? Would be a great place to stick in “not that I have a right to complain…” but I won’t, because I honestly don’t believe it. In my own warped/ humorous/ selfish/ wise/ whatever you wish to call it opinion, I believe that everyone has a right to complain, at least on occasion. I believe that everyone’s lives are relative, not just to each other’s lives, but to their own. In short: one man’s exploded tire is another man’s failed marriage, or lost trinket, or broken wrist. You react to a situation based on your own experience, not the collective experience of the world. And strange as it may seem, for me to say, lose my home could very well produce the same misery in me as losing a nail could in someone else (albeit, a very spoiled someone else). It is rare that a person can honestly reconcile their own experiences and rate them against another’s accurately, so I won’t pretend that I can. At least not usually. This year is pissing me off, and although I have faith in myself and my strength to overcome these sudden obstacles at some point in the future, right now feels like the Universe awoke from a peaceful, slumber-y hibernation and screamed “Shit! I haven’t messed with Arwen in a quick minute. Where’d I put that shotgun full of angry bees?!”

That being said, I assume that a few weeks from now I will either look backwards and understand the hidden blessing and reasoning here, or I will have chewed a hole in my hand. Either way, it is the calming presence of a great friend, a strong companion, tons of music, and attempting to focus on one minute-per-minute that is keeping the storms of hysteria at bay. I hate it when cliche colloquialisms come true, but: It has come, wickedly, in threes.

I will give 2009 this: you completely remade me. Inside, out. I was a doormat of the worst kind– the kind that almost no one sees. Frighteningly confused. Inundated with a number of sopping wet piles of needy, manipulative, bullshit shells that called themselves my friends, but whose sole purpose of being connected to me was to use me, for one reason or another, to benefit themselves and their selfish sickness. I was unclear on the notion of reality, what it meant as applied to friendship, love, family, self, need, want, desire, goal, control, submission, identity. You gave me a twisted, gut-wrenching path that spat me out cleaner, more resilient, more honest, and less afraid. You gave me wonderful new friends, deepened my worthy relationships, changed my mind, sent me to Japan, showed me what kind of hope a new life can bring to a family. You gave me drunk vampire movies, free grilled cheese sandwiches, an end to ruining myself with nicotine, and a much improved view of me. You were difficult. I cried a lot. I doubted, a lot. I was angry, a lot. And you killed a lot of celebrities, which was bizarre.

C’mon…Michael Jackson? Really? Really?

New mantras must often be repeated an incredible amount of times before they turn from theory to practice. And so, on broken record: I will not be scared to be honest. I will not question the love that people have for me. I will not doubt my importance to others. I will never give love to someone who cannot, or will not, love me back. I will not suffer for others on the assumption that others will suffer for me. Forgiveness is often futile, there is no point in pretending you are a better person than you really are, and I will not compromise who I am to save someone else discomfort. I deserve to be healthy, and happy. I am stronger than I give myself credit for, and I have years of evidence to prove it.

There are always a thousand more reasons not to do something, than to do something.

It’s time to get moving.

Oh, and 2010? You go right ahead and mess with me. I’ve got all year.

***