morning head: Happy Fucking New…

Like so many children of the 80’s, suddenly faced with the fact that we’re firmly middle-aged (a fact made plain not by our grey hairs, dad-bods and sagging tits, but by the icons of our youth dropping like those proverbial fucking flies) I am wont to reflect on 2016 as being a pretty shit year, all told. This despite all non-celebrity-death related metrics suggesting that life just keeps getting better.

Unlike most of my contemporaries, however, my 2016 was largely unaffected by luminary bucket-kicking, or for that matter, by the election of a bigoted megalomaniacal orangutan to the highest office in the land. But don’t get me wrong. I am not without feeling. And yes, based on my current place of residence, I’m sure the next several years will be fucked six ways to Sunday by that toupéed, little-fingered fucktrumpet.

But I’m not all melodrama and heavenward fist shaking over a few deceased famous people. I am sad that so many of them died early, probably as a result, indirect or otherwise, of their copious self-medication. And I am sad that some number of those felt the need to self-medicate because of some degree of mental illness. I am sad because I am an empathic person. And I share their disease.

Depression, a dominant theme of my 2016, is about as lonely as illness gets. It’s not helped, of course, by moving to the opposite side of the globe from family, from the people who seek my company out, who seek to understand, who ask “hey, what’s going on?” rather than “what the fuck is wrong with Gethin?”

The real loneliness, however, comes not from geographical isolation from one’s friends, but from others’ incapacity to understand, however much they might seek to.

No matter how much explaining happens, no one else will ever be inside your head, will feel the same, will truly understand, even if they have experienced something similar. And depression is an insidious little fucker, who convinces you that it doesn’t exist, that the problem is just in your head. Which it is. And also that it’s all about you. It’s. All. About. You. It’s all because of you. It’s all your fault. It’s all in your head.

Coupled with the repeated disintegration of marital harmony, another major theme this past year, which is all my fault, or maybe all in my head, or either way definitely possibly all about me, 2016 probably qualifies as the worst year of life so far. Even taking into account the prodigious volume of sheer delight that infused so much of my year, because toddler, that statement holds true.

Also, I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find that the witless orange cocksplat soon to ascend to the Whitehouse is all in my head too.

I’m generally not one for New Years, for the arbitrary assignation of numbers that have nothing to do with any true shift in the world, change in the seasons, period of renewal. Still, sometimes it helps to draw that metaphorical line in the sand.

So, here’s the line.

 

Welcome to 2017 motherfuckers.

The year of no booze.

The year of the novel.

The year of understanding.

The year of dark fire.

 

Happy Fucking New Year.