I was lying in a twin bed just now, thinking about all the things I’d like to write about. A sleeping Momo was kicking me with her warm little foot. I’m in my childhood home and I hear small booms outside—could be fireworks or could be bullets, this being La Puente. I have lots to say, but it’s late, and I’m a little worried about a cold that’s causing extreme phlegm production for Momo.
I thought 2014 was the worst year of my life, and then 2015 came along and taught me that I didn’t know pain at all. Perhaps I still don’t.
But it wasn’t all bad. I like my work, which is no small thing, and I like my work friends. I have a special relationship with Momo, who gave me a reason to continue living this year. I started seeing a psychoanalyst who is introducing me to myself. I went to Mexico City for three weeks, and somehow watching Lucha Libre at the Arena Mexico unlocked that part of myself that finds beauty in life. I confessed to being in love with someone who didn’t reciprocate, and I survived.
My pain is still raw. It glows with Technicolor vivacity. But I have found a way to live with people who don’t yet understand that kind of pain. I miss my brother and I’m sorry I never really got to make up for being such a shitty sister when we were young.
I remember watching my father when he was in the hospital and thinking about how insignificant my work was compared to the life-saving work that a nurse or doctor does. But after he died, I turned to art for salvation—books, poetry, music plucked me from the solitude of my mourning and gave me a connection with humankind that I was desperate for.
In 2016 I want to practice writing and music again. I want to be generous and live lavishly. I want to find what is most interesting about every new person I meet. I want to make L.A. feel like home or move on. Who knows what the future holds? 2016 could be worse, or it could be better. I’m not going to hold my breath. I’m just going to try to stay honest and make it count.