Traditionally, New Year’s Eve is when people get all retrospective.

You know…reliving the past year, celebrating the moments of awesome, shedding tears of sadness and loss, and making extravagant plans for the year to come.

All while getting completely blitzed.

Today I was feeling a bit New Year’s Eve-y

(reminding myself I absolutely hate the real holiday).

As I rocked the Baby Chicken to sleep, I started to think about my life one year ago.

There was a lot of tears.

Late nights sobbing on the floor with my mom sobbing with me…reminding me gently that life sucked, but that it would be OK.

There was a lot of anger.

Tons of hurt.

And fear.

Ohhh how the Fear overwhelmed me.

I was fearful of everything.

When your world implodes and your foundation of Truth and Trust disappears, it is almost impossible to move forward without a deep rooted fear that the next step you take won’t end.

You know what I mean.

You try and put your foot down, your toes searching for the cement to grip on to.

To stabilize you.

To support you.

To remind you.

And there isn’t anything there.

So you fall.

No tripping.

You fall uncontrollably into a dark abyss…not knowing where up is or where down in.

You don’t know if there are walls to grip on to in your decent.

Or what is waiting for you at the bottom.

If there is one.

Last year was a free fall.

Last August specifically was a nightmare.

The tensions.

The air that was almost breathable…but too thick to ever fill my lungs with.

And the Fear.

I was afraid.

I remember one day, I think it was one year ago to the day, now that I look at the calender, and I was cowering in the corner, almost hysterical, with the baby held tightly to my chest.

I’m not sure who was protecting who.

Perhaps it was mutual.

I kept PRAYING that either someone would come home, bust down the door, and save me.

I kept telling myself that it was going to be OK.

That I would be OK.

That there wouldn’t be any punches thrown.

That nobody would be hurt.

That there wouldn’t be any bruises.

That it was just a dream.

I don’t think that I was ever left home again without another adult.

I didn’t sleep.

I couldn’t sleep.

I think that I was afraid to sleep.

If reality was this bad…the place of my unconscious would have been horrifying.

Last August was hard.

It was horrible.

And, I was lucky.

God, I was lucky for so many reasons.

You know those times in your life when you can’t bear to look at yourself in the mirror?

You are afraid to make eye-contact with yourself, afraid of what you might see?

That was last August.

I was a mess.

I was A Mess.

I was ashamed.

And, truly – I know, I didn’t ‘do’ it – and I shouldn’t be ashamed.

But, my reality was shameful.

Grown women should never cower in corners of their homes, hiding their babies from Anger.

Fear should never shadow over a home that has the innocence and joy of children running through the halls.

Fear should never shadow over any home, for that matter.

Women should never Fear the whimsy of others.

I was fearful.

And I was ashamed because I didn’t get out before the Anger came in.

But.

That was my life.

And I attempted to embrace it.

And I learned.

I learned the hard way.

but, as they they, “I learned it GOOD”

That won’t EVER happen again.

The last year has been hard.

Tears and pain.

Anger and angst.

And the anxiety.

And the perceived loss of control.

The identity crisis.

The loss of identity.

The loss of self-value.

A lot of mourning.

I think that I decided to start to write again early November, late October.

I needed an outlet.

I needed a private place to think.

Organize my ideas.

Make my ideas and emotions tangible because they were on paper.

When things are tangible…and we can hold them, destroy them, or hide them…they become real.

I needed my Fear to become more than just an emotion.

I needed something I could grip on to.

And as I wrote, something told me that I needed to tell someone.

So – I hit publish.

And the most intimate struggle of my existence became public.

And it somehow validated my existence.

It made me real again, somehow.

It gave me something to stand on.

My free fall stopped.

The shit was still a’swirling….

But, I found my breath.

I started to walk.

And realized that there was something there to catch me.

I look back to who I was a year ago…and there are days when I hardly recognize myself.

I was accused of being a bitch in my past life.

You know….”pre-August 2011″

And they had NO. FUCKING. CLUE.

I am definitely a bitch now.

I’m assertive.

I’m confident.

I know what I want.

I know what I do NOT want.

I have a clear mind.

I trust myself again.

I actually have learned to trust other people, too.

In ways I have actually never trusted people before.

I take care of myself.

I have fostered a relationship with myself.

I have learned to listen to my gut again.

I have learned to trust the instinct I had pushed to the back of my heart years ago.

I walk with a high head.

I embrace who I am.

I’m not embarrassed.

I think that I am learning to smile from my soul again.

I’ve had moments of true bliss in the last year.

You know those moments when you stop and realize, “YES. This is exactly why I exist” kind of moments.

and moments when you stop and think, “Shit!  THIS is true beauty.”

I have climbed mountains and stepped on shit.

I have celebrated, analyzed, assessed, obsessed and cried some more.

BUT

I like where I am going.

There is no way in Hell this adventure is even close to over.

But, I am finding my groove.

I am holding on tightly to what I believe in.

And I’m doing what my gut tells me, regardless of what other people think (or tell me).

I’ve learned that if I want to create a beautiful world for my kids, I damn well better create a beautiful world for me.

I can’t create perfection until I figure out what it is.

There are still days that are inherent struggles.

There are still tears.

But, there is a lot of laughter.

And the bitter stings of life seem to only appear when I want them to.

(I will forever embrace the title ‘scorned women’ – if feels good to be Her sometimes).

And there is true hope.

Last year I was definitely in survival mode.

I ate, drank, slept, spoke and moved only to survive one minute to the next – attempting to outsmart Fear for one more fleeing moment.

This year, I am dabbling in Hope.

Hope feels good.

So much better than Fear.

The quiet of Hope is blissfully welcomed – and it seems to soothe the smoldering burns that Fear left behind.

And my Hope is not one of those “let’s cross our fingers and see what happens” – kind of hope.

It is the kind the ignites movement, and creativity, and energy.

The Hope that creates opportunity.

And feeds Faith.

And Happiness.

And Health.

I’m not there.

But, I’m getting there.

Confidently.

In my Bitch heels and Mary Kay mascara.

My life is still in shambles.

But, I’m walking over that fucking disaster scene and moving on to the next set.

I’m trying incredibly hard to leave this shit behind me and start up and new phase of life.

I’m a million miles away from last year.

Perhaps a million-trillion miles away.

I’m glad I made it here.

I’m thankful for the people that helped me get here.

I appreicate my new chance at life.

In fact, I think that I value life a bit more than I did last year, too.

As for Fear?

Yep. He still lucks.

He hides in the shit piles I stride by.

But, Fear no longer has me trapped.

I’m not imprisoned.

I’m free.

Ready to take flight, as the cliche goes.

Ready. Just waiting to decide which direction I’ll let the wind take me