Bibliographic 2.10: Year in Review
I started 2022 with a bout of vertigo that, as I sat in the ER puking into the little plastic container they’d given me, I told myself was definitely not a sign for the year to come. It was just a random ailment that happened to coincide with the second day of the new year, nothing more, nothing less. But then– maybe it kind of was a metaphor for 2022? A year of ups and downs, sometimes discombobulating, occasionally requiring nothing else but burying under the covers and waiting for time to pass until I felt more equipped to deal with the world.
The truth is that I’ve started writing a year-in-review letter a few times over the past few weeks and keep getting stuck. I think I got good at writing about my life in a particular way– I had a reliable cast of characters, some excellent moments to frame– but now I’m getting used to some shifts in the formula.
For instance, I’ve always loved writing about Clara– as a baby, a toddler, a little kid growing up. She’s turning 8 in less than a week and I still remember when she was born so clearly: being in the hospital on New Year’s Eve, the snow on the ground, swaddling her in blankets, feeling her tiny body sleeping against my chest. How was that eight years ago? I remember being surprised by how much of a person she was when she was a baby. Not just a cute potato lump, but an elf, a huge personality at a few months old. However, I’m even more astounded by her as a person now. I mean, her individuality, her distinction from me. I love us as a duo and sometimes we’re still that mother/daughter undefinable blob, but at this point the lines are drawn and often she’s running way ahead of me. I feel like my days of writing about her publicly are waning: she should have a choice in what stories of hers are told by me, she has her opinions on what photos I share, and deserves her privacy.
This was also the year when I started going through a divorce, and if you’ve been reading my zines and blogs and essays and newsletters, I’ve always written freely about my marriage. It seems strange to abruptly announce its ending. I remember when I was struggling to get pregnant, I wanted to process it through writing, but I hoped I could hold out long enough to have a satisfactory conclusion (i.e. a baby). And then it took too long and despite not having an “ending”, I couldn’t wait anymore to write about it. I suppose that’s the point I’m at now, not quite at the end but needing to process. I’m not sure how to write about it, and it’s also something that deserves privacy, but I will say that even right decisions are devastating, not just the breakup aspect (which, to be honest, emotional introspection is something I do well!) but for the coldness of the logistics involved. Lawyers, dredging up years of paperwork, setting up Google calendars, learning a new weird vocabulary. How can we–I mean I– I mean we– or I– be good at this, do it well? I don’t know. I– we– am, are muddling through.
2022 was maybe not my favourite year, but it was a year, and the older you get the more you know that each year is a gift. I had the best support network, there were beautiful moments, there was love, I swam in the sea, I saw more live music than ever and it always felt so life-affirming to watch people sing on stage. I listened to these songs the most.
I read when I could. One of my most memorable reading experiences was the night that Charlotte Schwartz launched her book, Your Place or Mine?: Practical Advice for Developing a Co-Parenting Arrangement After Separation. I had a ticket to see Father John Misty at Roy Thomson Hall the same night and I rushed over after the launch, found my seat in the auditorium and realized I was a good 40 minutes early. I took out the book and read while drinking a plastic cup of red wine, and after that moment often relied on Charlotte’s advice (the concert was perfect too). Other moments: No One is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood on the beach in Greece. Everything Here is Under Control by Emily Adrian during the two weeks that Clara was visiting her grandparents and I could do whatever I wanted. Either/Or by Elif Batuman when I was in bed with Covid. I also watched more TV than I usually do and ate it up: Severance, The Bear, White Lotus, Fleishman is in Trouble. I became a person who really loves their Peloton.
I don’t remember what goals I set in 2022. I think I just wanted to get through the year. In 2023, okay, I want that too, but I would also like to figure out how to write about my life again. I would like to have some kind of publishing news. I would like to start writing the novel that’s been rattling around my head. I guess I just want more writing in my life. I’ve missed it.
Anyway: here’s to a new year, to new days and new words. Stay safe and healthy!
xoxo Teri