This Stupid Year

2014: Where Dreams Go To Die.
2014: Where Hard Work Means Ending Up At Exactly The Same Place You Started.
2014: Where People Who Are Still Getting Up Get Knocked Down Again.
2014: Where It's Not Just You, But Also People You Care About Getting Sucker Punched.
2014: Where Reality Itself Becomes Your Nemesis.

My last sleep of 2014 involved waking up at 5am wracked with nervous apprehension, and then having a terrible dream once I finally managed to get back to sleep. So, yeah, I'm in a pretty dark mindset on this last day of the year. Not that I wouldn't have been already, but, you know.

I wish I could say that I felt confident that 2015 will hurt less, but I can't. I know that some painful things lie ahead.

In my fit of restlessness last night, I came to the conclusion that I will, in all likelihood, need to move out of the studio. I have enough to pay rent for January, but beyond that, it's not looking good. And, even if I knew I could pay rent for February and beyond, I need that money to live on more than I need it for work. Maybe things will get better, and I can find a new space that'll hopefully suffer fewer broken windows. But, for now, I need to pull my stupid head out of the clouds.

And, that also means the likelihood of having a super-fun, "there may not be work here for you in February," conversation with my project manager, too. I've never had to lay someone off before, and I'm not looking forward to it. I feel sad at the idea of giving up, but after the parade of shit that has been this Fall and Winter, I just don't think I can squeeze out one more drop of optimism. The most hope I've been able to muster is applying for full-time creative jobs, and hoping that a halfway-decent one will take a chance on me.

But, the question of my life's work pales in comparison to my family's struggles. My grandpa's cancer has metastasized, and he was undergoing radiation treatments, while I was visiting him over Christmas. He also had a case of thrush in his throat--a common side effect of the steroids they'd put him on--so he was having difficulty eating, swallowing, even talking at times. He currently weighs less than I do, and his energy was low. He'd seem pretty normal in the mornings, but usually ran out of steam by Noon and wasn't up for much beyond sitting on the couch and watching TV or napping.

I kept busy trying to help out around the house, so my step-grandma and my aunt could actually have a break, but it was a visit punctuated by conversations in hushed voices. Through listening to (or overhearing) such conversations, I learned that, in short, the cancer is, "everywhere," in his body. It's sounding like it's less a question of curing it, and more a matter of extending and easing the time he has left. Guesstimates were made as far as timelines, and based on those, it's likely that he won't be there to see me turn 35 in April.

I try to be grateful that he's had 84 years on this earth, but I still get sad every time I think about it for more than a hot second. I know that I haven't been there as much as I should have. There was never the time or the means--I was either working a 9-to-5 and propping up one of my shitty exes, or riding the self-employment train and barely scraping by. I think about small things, like how lucky it is that he got to see me skate with Travel Team last summer, and I realize that there aren't going to be many more moments like that. No weddings, or great-grandchildren, or celebrations. We're out of time.

That might even be an accurate way to sum up where I'm at: I've run out of time. And I think maybe I lost my way, this past year. I'm in exactly the same place that I was at the end of last year--all but broke, overflowing with worry, casting about for new strategies or new ideas or hints of a miracle.

I can't keep doing the same things and expecting different results. Tomorrow seems as good a time to start changing as any.