Dear 2011,

Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck. You. You have been nothing short of awful.

In you, I have self-sabotaged, beaten myself down, and killed every good thing that could have come out of you. You are awful. You are almost a totally worthless waste of a year. You don’t even get to take credit for the amazing people in my life that helped me survive you, because guess what? Most of them hate you too.

I have watched you hurt people I love. I have watched incredibly good people wind up with bad circumstances, and that is your fault. You did this. Not them. So many people I care about are dealing with untenable situations. Sickness be it physical or mental, they are suffering. Fuck you for creating these problems in the first place, fuck you for giving these problems to people who don’t deserve to ever cry, and really just….fuck you; what kind of year brings cancer to all ages, hospitalizes a few for mental illness, and winds it up with domestic violence? Fuck you, 2011. I hate you. I hate you so much.

I should have known you were going to be a bad year. I wanted to be optimistic about you. You started fucking things up from day one. In two days you gave me a bad date, a bruised leg, and an ER visit. (That makes it sound like I had an abusive date. I didn’t; I went out with a very nice boy, but I resorted to my usual MO. Upon realizing I didn’t like-like nice boy, I proceeded to drink away my feelings in a wild night on the town with Keithers. We went to a really shady strip club because it was the only bar in proximity that was open. The ER part was because I got drunk enough to scare Keith into thinking I was going to die, and he called 911.)

From Day 1, 2011, I have just been trying to survive you. For all the times I said I wouldn’t (but did) buy vodka at the little store right across from my bus stop. For all the times that I had to close my office door and cry. For all the moments in rehab when I felt like I was back in middle school. For all those days in that horrible, horrible summer where I simply could not get out of bed. For the mornings I lay there with my eyes squeezed shut praying that somehow I would not have to wake up again.

For that day I called Brent and sobbed on the phone for almost 2 hours in a “Come to Jesus” type scenario. For that day Brent told me “I’m tired of caring about you.” Because really. I am too much to deal with and sometimes, people just get sick of worrying about you.

(Fuck you 2011, in case I haven’t said it enough)

I hate you, for all the vague fantasies you gave me of simply stepping in front of a bus.

And

And yes, I will grant you the points in which it got better. I found a place to live (thank you Roommate), I found a combo of meds that doesn’t suck when I remember to take them properly.

But, fuck you, 2011.

In you, I remembered what it was like to like-like a boy, and then in you remembered how to sabotage things with a boy. In you, I got to hear the words “I don’t want you.” and “I will never fall in love with you.” Thanks a lot 2011, because I hadn’t heard those words since 2004, and you know what, they don’t suck any less at 28 as they do at 21.

I hate you for the way I sunk into self-hatred and angst. I hate you for that panic attack in front of strangers. I hate you for still letting me feel like I would never be good enough. I hate you for the anxiety that keeps me from taking the escalator at Dupont, for the angst that made me utterly unattractive, for the nights where sleep alluded me until 5am, for the self-doubt, for the self-destruction, for the self-loathing. I hate you.

Some might say that I should give you credit for the good things in my life. Supportive family and friends for one. The new living situation that came out of nowhere when I needed it the most. The strangers who walked me home after the panic attack. The Message-Board-of-Note people who have responded to my angsty, whiny postings with nothing but support. The amazing people in my life who know I’m a head case and love me anyway.

Well, fuck you 2011, because you get no credit for that. That was all me. That was not you. And while you may say I’m a hypocrite for blaming you for the bad and taking credit for the good, I will say that is just proof of the one good thing to come out of you: This is not over, 2011. Your calendar may be closing, but This is Not Over. You didn’t win. I’m still here.

I’m still here.

Good riddance,

Rachel