2017 might be best described as the year I stopped trying to change the world and started to heal myself.
At the start of the year, I was confused and muddle-headed. I tried to discover why through the GP who could only discover what wasn't wrong rather than what was. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that my researched and self-diagnosed ASD was not a medical priority worth exploration. I was too old for an NHS referral. I interpreted this as "You've functioned for 45 years so you can keep functioning for another 25. Now fuck off!"
I halved my Fluoxetine dose and got on with it. I haven't spoken to the doctor about mental health issues since.
2017 fought bravely against my plan for self-awareness through self-care. My fifteen year old daughter was assaulted in ways that bore similarities to my own teenage years and after the court case I tried to contain my pain both as mother and victim, but couldn't. My reasons for being a feminist mum was an attempt to protect my daughters from a world that had hurt me deeply for decades. Realising I couldn't even do that felt like a knife was being twisted in my belly. The dramatic culmination of a death by one thousand cuts. But I'm still here, although fuck knows why. Possibly because suffering is my normal state of being.
November was therapeutic. I wrote, or at least started to write, Venus Virus. A story about the end of Patriarchy in the near future. I also joined an ASD women's support group on Facebook, which has been very helpful and enlightening.
The icing on the cake of shite is that, I am hurtling into menopause. And so as I head towards a new year, I anticipate more pain and suffering, both for me and my daughters. However, I also anticipate survival and endurance - although to what purpose still remains unclear.
So fuck off 2017. 2018, do your worst, I'm coming for you.