Another New Year’s Eve Alone With Depression
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m sitting on the couch. My glass of water sits abandoned on the table beside me. Well, actually, my glasses of water for the last couple of nights are there next to it, too. I look down at my pajamas, which, yes, I had in fact promised myself I would change out of today, but it’s far too late now. Besides, it’s not like I wanted to go to that New Year’s party with my friend anyway. Why do that when I can watch the ball drop inside the comfort of my own living room?
The voices of the newscasters broadcasting live from Times Square have faded into a dull drone, a fuzzy and ambient sort of white noise instead of words. Through it all, I’ve gathered that it’ll be midnight soon. I start to think about the other nights like these. I think about all the missed celebrations, gatherings and stories to tell one day.
“It’s a shame,” I think to myself. It really is. I just wasn’t able to make it out tonight or any of those other nights. I feel guilty because I know my friends must get sick of hearing me decline invitation after invitation. I hope they understand.
“Some party,” I think to myself, but just behind that phrase echoes the words “pity party.” I know there’s some truth to them. I have truly let myself sink into a little cove of regret tonight. I know this isn’t good.
I glance up at the TV, forcing myself to focus on the topic of conversation. I notice the clock has just begun to count down the last 60 seconds of this year. I think of my friend again, the one who invited me out tonight, and I decide to shoot her a text.
“Thanks for the invite tonight. Sorry, I didn’t make it!”
After I hit send, I think to myself, “Maybe next time.”
Yeah, maybe next time I’ll go with her. The people on the TV have started counting down from 10. I glance at the table next to me and think, “Yeah, maybe this year I’ll leave my water glasses in the sink. Maybe, next year I’ll change out of my pajamas before 12 a.m. the next night. Maybe next year, I’ll go out and celebrate. Maybe next year, I’ll get myself a story to tell.”
I hear the final “3, 2, 1,” and the following obligatory uproar from the streets of New York, and I smile. I stand up to flick off the TV. I grab my used water glasses off on the table, dropping them off in the kitchen sink before walking into my bedroom.
“Maybe this year,” I think, “my ‘maybe this year’ hopes won’t fade before I wake up in the morning.”
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