I sit on the edge of the bed, combing through my hair and wonder what it used to feel like to be able to reach the back of my head with ease. Being able to stretch my arms that far without the ache and intense pain I'm currently feeling.
After listening to the fireworks display from my bed whilst reading Caitlin Moran's Moranthology - a current new obsession since receiving my Kindle for Christmas - I wondered if I'd ever bring in the new year with a smile on my face. I made a list of each year since I was able to celebrate without my family and each year told a tale of misery and despair.
Most have been haunted by loss but most have been spent either in hospital or vomiting - and not always induced by copious amounts of gin.
This is my way of saying, FUCK IT! I hate New Year.
I will not be kissing the love of my life at the stroke of midnight or raising a glass of fizz to a prosperous year ahead. I will never adorn myself in sequins and pay over priced cab fares. I will always be the scrooge of New Year.
After a sleepless night due to pain and a baby that seems to think it's fun to Riverdance on my bladder; I woke up in a new year feeling no different. I was still miserable. I still had a belly full of stretch marks and nothing urged me to jump out of bed and seize the day. My life has really always been that boring.
The most inspiring thing I've read so far this year is an article in The Times where the art critics listed their resolutions and must reads for the year ahead - all arts based of course. This is the only thing that's got me excited in the slightest. After making myself a hot chocolate - fuck the herbal teas and good intentions, I'm pregnant and if I want a full-fat milk hot chocolate for breakfast I'll damn well have one - I realise that my body is already giving up and decide I want a mid morning nap. Yes I realise it's only 11am but chronic fatigue is a bitch and has decided to ruin my plans to eating my body weight in popcorn at the cinema this afternoon.
I run my fingers through my pointlessly combed hair and think, 'Oh dear, what happened to you last night?' Not gin that's for sure and I rest my head on my mountain of over priced pregnancy pillows and start the New Year as I mean to go on. With my eyes wide shut.
