Happy New Year

I just woke up. Last night was definitely not my proudest moment and was not the way I wanted to enter the New Year.

This morning doesn’t bode well for 2017. I awoke promptly at 6:30 and have no recollection of the events that occurred at midnight. I remember the minutes leading up to it, but as hard as I try, I can’t remember a second past 12.

I am not a young kid into my first few drinks, just learning that mixing tequila, beer, and low self esteem is a cocktail of disaster. I’m not an alcoholic, barely able to wait for an excuse to  drink myself stupid, hiding behind the Christmas tree as I chug the last open bottle of wine in the house.

I’m not proud of how much I drank last night because I was not the woman I want to be for 2017. I don’t want to be a sloppy, slurring simpleton that can’t control her bodily movements. I don’t want to say things that hurt or embarrass others, which I can’t regret the next day because I have no recollection of my them.
I want to remember the clock striking midnight as I embrace the single most amazing person I have ever met. I want to remember bringing the New Year in while celebrating another year of our love.

Instead, I’m awake at a disgustingly early hour, chugging a bottle of water while the room spins, trying to type a half coherent blog post. Will I be proud of this rambling note or will I cringe as I read it in a few days, hoping no-one stumbled upon it between now and when I delete it?

My New Year’s resolution is to write something, anything, each month. It’s to test whether I enjoy this act of mind purging; this way of making oneself vulnerable to the world. I hope it goes better than my year so far. I want it to succeed.

I’ve got to close this post to retrieve my toddler. That is the happiest part of my morning, knowing I will get to greet my beautiful children the first day of the year, at least with a semblance of sobriety; and I can’t wait to give the man of my dreams the first kiss I can remember of 2017.