Hello, 2013. Glad to see you.

As the year has begun, and heads off in new directions, I find myself thoughtful.

The trials in our lives are not mere obstacles, but the catalysts of change, bringing with them shifts in our thoughts, our beliefs, and our hearts. Those shifts are important, and often painful, and I treasure them more now than I ever have.

I almost didn’t get to have those shifts. All my life, I shoved things under the rug, swept them away, out of sight. But almost a year ago, I tripped over that rug and hit a wall. I hit it hard, and I broke.

I remember my husband lying to me to get me to the hospital. I remember raging at him, lashing out like a viper, pouring all my hate and fear and regret and loathing on him. I remember lying in the hospital, hearing them talk about admitting me, running tests, calling the cardiologist.

I can still see my cardiologist, the same man who treated my mother, my brother, my sister and myself, standing at the foot of my bed and telling me that my heart was fine. That medically, it wasn’t broken. But he said that sometimes our hearts aren’t broken physically but emotionally, and that it can affect us in ways we never thought possible.

He asked if I had ever talked with someone about the death of my mother, and I wept. I cried like I have never cried in my life. He asked if I felt I was a danger to myself. I did. He asked if I felt I was a danger to others. I didn’t know. He said he would send someone in to see me, and asked me to talk to them. And I did.

I didn’t know what else to do. I felt at that point it was either talk to someone and get help, or die. I talked. I talked about my mother, my dog, my horses. I talked about my past relationships, my broken friendships, my self-loathing and my anger. They wanted to put me into outpatient therapy; a program of 5 days a week, 8 hours a day. My insurance wouldn’t cover it. So I went home with my husband and hid until I could see my doctor, and see a therapist.

Meds helped, and so did therapy. Over the next months I found more productive ways to cope with my sense of loss, my feeling of inadequacy, and my anger. I learned that letting go is the most empowering thing one can do, and that holding on to anger and pain only gives them control over you. I learned how to live a life that wasn’t toxic. And it’s amazing.

I still hide, on occasion. Some days are rough; I have to hide until I don’t feel like I’m going to fly out of my skin, until my heart stops tripping off rhythm and my stomach doesn’t hurt. Until I don’t feel so overwhelmed by the world. But even on my worst days, I don’t feel that hurting myself is the answer anymore. I don’t feel that death solves anything for anyone, not even the dead.

But most days are good. Most days I’m a girl and I walk with my feet, and eat the bits and the bits stay down. Most days, I’m real. And I work.

I see the changes that the past year has wrought, both in myself and in the world around me. I see others around me cry, and fight, and mourn, and regret. I see them smile, and laugh, and love. I see them, and I rejoice.

Because life with all its problems is a gift. It is a blessing, and while sometimes it may feel like a curse, it’s the most wondrous thing we have. Science has not yet unlocked its secrets, and while religion may try to explain it, it cannot truly quantify it.

I am alive. I am on my way to being a better human being. I have love, and joy, and pain, and sorrow. And I am thankful for all of it.