I am reading up on convalescent homes in Victorian England and appropriating its concept of extended recuperation time for where we are now, the end of 2020, when what we all need is a good dose of escapism from what has been a harrowing year. I admittedly have been avoiding writing in my diary all year because expressing my inner self is too scary; I'm afraid to read about my depression, my struggles with staying motivated, my listlessness, my privileged adventures throughout Europe, without retching at the complete lack of control I've demonstrated in the last few months. But then, most diary entries reveal this about myself. So what about this year makes it all too hard to see reflected on a page?
I really don't need to tell you how shit of a year it's been. And that's sort of where I'm coming from. Inner reflection is hard and it takes time and honesty to write. Time and honesty, those are hard to come by sometimes. And while there are endless benefits to mindfulness and self-awareness, I am just too tired to exercise my mind, even for the sake of myself. But showing up to my blog in the last week of 2020 is perhaps the most simpering act. If I write down all my feelings *now*, will it make up for my complete mishandling of the last year?
Probably not. And where would I begin? Lots of questions, lots of time. But this is all I've got!
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