Why
is it we say, "Happy New Year" anyway? Is it because
we're so glad the previous year is over? Or is it because we
are hoping the upcoming year is better than the last?
What
if each New Year is simply an annual reminder of mistakes and
regrets?
What if hearing "Happy New Year" feels like
a punch in the gut?
Two
years and four days ago, my older son walked out my door and I was
powerless to stop him. He was eighteen years old and hell-bent
on proving that there was nothing wrong with him--that he was just
fine. That was December 31, 2010.
You'd
think I'd be healing by now. You'd think. But this week
has been rougher than I expected. After two years, I still
haven't forgiven myself for letting him go out the door. I
haven't forgiven myself and yet I know in my heart that I did
everything I could have done. He made the choice to leave. He
made the choice to sofa-hop from friend's house to friend's house,
eventually ending up on the streets before begrudgingly moving in
with his father where he still lives today. Or at least that's where
his belongings are. He may or may not end up there come
nightfall. He makes those choices everyday. Yes, my son is still out there. He's lost. He's depressed. And
so am I.
Two
years and four days.
"Happy
New Year"? No, I won't be so ambitious. How about "Healing
New Year"?
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