Getting Over January
January is a promise you never keep.
It is the green tea you could not finish because you prefer it black with milk, the anxiety you suppress until you’ve lost your appetite, situations you leap to take blame for because then you can control them.
January is the pretty boy who winks at you that you are too afraid to trust, so you pretend you will leave first. It is his ex and her beautiful long blonde hair that you picture when listening to love songs. It is the familiar and comforting feeling of dread and shame after you pick at a wound until you are on the ground sobbing. This is who you are. This is who January could not erase.
January is the knowledge that no matter how many times you dye your hair or get new clothes, you will always be rotten. Dutifully, you eat your vegetables and read on your commute and greet your coworkers with a bright good morning. In January, you are the good girl you are supposed to be. You miss your dad for the first time in months, and for some reason you can’t stop staring at a photo of the two of you as you let hot tears trail your cheek.
In January, you are disappointed by who you are.
When you look into the mirror your jawline is still soft and your eyebags are prominent because you have not been able to sleep in over a year. Are you young or old? Why has your heart been racing for a week straight? Why do your birthdays feel so lonely?
January is a false prophet; He comes to you draped in robes that are adorned with images of a prettier, richer, healthier, happier, more successful you dressed in clothes that are perfectly cool, he promises you a job that fits you like you are a calico critter sitting at a tea party, a fucking party to go to every now and again. He preaches to you - less carbs, find the right script in every situation you are in, stop thinking bad thoughts, and I promise you that you will be rewarded.
In January, a war is brewing and you still hate your thighs. As you die, you pinch your cheek fat and take it as a sign that you are not doing enough. You are finite and nothing will ever be enough. On the tube your heart races because (as usual) you are overwhelmed and afterwards you research ways of becoming a modern batman. In January it is more than apparent that you are lazy, selfish, horrible, cruel, ungrateful, fat, ugly, impossible.
I simultaneously feel like a tiny worker bee buzzing, giving me the illusion that I have the freedom to create peace in my day to day, and a soon-to-be Sisyphus who must better the world. These alternate false realities give me whiplash, and I feel I have no right to anything in my life. Sometimes, when I hurt it feels good because it feels earned. My problems feel indulgent, and I owe it to my dead sisters to read anything I can get my hands on and become as rich as possible.
This ever persisting guilt, can I attribute it to January? I have searched for the correct answer in every month of the year, and unfortunately I remain a beetle between yellow weeds.
Perhaps in February you must accept that before you are big, you have to be small. Selfishly, I desire warmth and stability and fun and growth. Selfishly, I am a Real Life Human Girl.
In February I will let go of my grand delusions and ego that is larger and more fragile than it has any right to be. Instead, I will whisper kind words into my coffee and smile at not just my favourite trees. Experiences will be shepherded into the farms of my mind, and I will shear memories at my leisure.
In February, I will be as flawed and human as I always am.
© Cat
