The Grouch Who Stole the New Year

A grouch stole the turning of the year. That’s certainly how it felt. I considered that the grouch may not have been an ill-tempered mythical, Dr. Suess-looking creature. The grouch, I considered, may instead have been the collective unconscious. The collective unconscious feels quite weary and impatient. People are forgetting that we’re affected by a long-term pandemic, and not everything and everyone is available at a moment’s notice. People are seeming rather short-tempered. I certainly am. After some deliberation about what the grouch was/is, I realized that it’s quite possible - probable, in fact - that the grouch is indeed in me. I am remembering, again, that the grouch is Grief.

I started hearing “Happy New Year” on Friday, December 31st. When I heard it, I heard an anticipation and expectation that the next day, when it would magically become 2022, all in life would be wonderful and happy. The insinuation, in saying “Happy New Year” to me, was that I would feel this - that, on the eve of the big event, I was already feeling this. One part of me may have been interpreting the salutation as people telling me to “have a happy new year,” and it felt like a lot of pressure. I was not feeling happy, and I could not imagine that the next day, I would start feeling happy. I did not feel I could, in any way, live up to the expectation of having a “happy new year.”

I understand that “Happy New Year” is not merely a declaration or a command. It’s a wish. The person saying it wishes that the recipient will (eventually) feel some amount of “happy” in this (new) year. I get it, I do. I just didn’t relate to it. “Happy” didn’t seem like a realistic emotion to have or aspire toward. It felt like wishing “happy” anything to anyone was an empty wish, a lie. I didn’t feel “happy” so I didn’t believe it could be experienced, and therefore, it should not, realistically be wished. Yet, on the night of the 1st of January, when I saw a “Happy New Year” text on my iPhone, and, upon opening it, fireworks exploded on my phone’s screen, I felt… happy.

I wanted more “happy.” I wanted to share this “happy.” I focused everything in me on my two opposable thumbs texting 34 messages reading: “Happy New Year.” I fully expected that the 34 recipients would see exploding fireworks and feel joy - the same joy I had felt.

Unfortunately, some recipients only saw words. Maybe you need an iPhone to receive exploding fireworks when you type and send “Happy New Year.” Maybe the transmission needs to be Apples-to-Apples, not iPhone to Android or whatever. Regardless of the reason, I looked at the bare words on my side of the screen and felt like I’d sent insincere wishes - empty words, void of meaning… empty wishes, full of lies… no fireworks to stir the soul into feeling “happy.”

I had been falling into an unhappy wormhole since May of 2021, and found myself, as the year turned from 2021 to 2022, deeply unhappy. Being deeply unhappy, it seems impossible to imagine that feeling happy is… possible. It was impossible to imagine, until I experienced that exploding firework induced “happy” moment.

When grief knocks at my door, and I ignore it, or hold the door closed in fear that it’ll barge in uninvited, the pressure builds, and I feel miserable. It’s not until I open the door and invite Grief in, that I start to feel better.

So finally, throughout New Year’s weekend, I wrote. I wrote about the losses of 2021. I typed them out, screamed them out, shook them out, cried them out, and processed through them. I’m not saying I’m done. I’m not “all better.” My shoulders are sore; my neck is stiff; I feel sciatica in my left hip, butt, and leg. My digestive system is off. Stress is still, obviously, taking its toll in my physical body. My spirits are low. My energy is low. My mind is not at peace. My emotions are not “happy.” I’m not “all better”, just… better.

Grief is always here, and it likes to be acknowledged and processed. I’m processing.

As for The Grouch, I’d say he feels seen and heard, more accepted and loved. He’s laying cozily by the fire in my heart, wrapped in a warm blanket, sipping hot cocoa, with a fur-baby curled on his lap. He’s not willing to say he’s “happy” though he’s also admittedly not unhappy. He may even be more comfortable hearing “Happy New Year” and even, saying it.

I hope you (and your Grouch) are working your way through whatever you’re feeling, thinking, and experiencing. May you feel some peace, joy, and comfort, too, as we walk our days into 2022.