I don’t know what kind of year this is

I don’t know what kind of year this is.

On February 1, I lost my job after four months of knowing I’d made a mistake in taking it.

I crushed my job search and ended up with three offers. I chose one, then turned a surprise equity check from my previous job into a trip to Copenhagen.

Last week my 95-year-old grandpa fell, sustaining a serious injury. He’s in good spirits; he’s lived through worse. I don’t know how worried to be.

I needed to pick the right job this time, and I did. I love the people on my team, and I’m working on something cool and innovative.  I cherish the small acts of kindness I receive at work because I’m used to being undervalued.

I ran 10 miles yesterday, and for the first time it wasn’t hard. But the sunscreen I wore on my run caused my skin to break out, alongside the eczema I have for the first time since I was a child. I’m self-conscious upon meeting new people, which is all you do at a new job.

I can afford the $50 face wash I waited in line to buy as I wrote this, and the stupidly expensive phone it was written on. The woman at Sephora was nice to me, sensing I was struggling. I didn’t cry at the register.

In January, I dealt with my impending job loss by learning how to be present, so I am now free of anxiety for the first time in my life. I now know how to access a deep sense of peace when I need it. Most of the time, anyway.

Nine days ago, the person I was sure I would spend the rest of my life with left me.

I have wonderful friends. I have a mom who will cry on the phone with me through my heartbreak. I have a brother who will buy me ice cream and try to say the right thing, and a father who has always been my biggest cheerleader even if I can’t talk to him about this particular type of devastation. I love my apartment.

I can’t stand to be in the apartment I love.

I’m surrounded by people to the extent I need to be.

I am all alone.

My dance card is full.

I have never felt less like dancing. Music, any music, makes me sick.

I turn 35 next month, which wasn’t an issue until my birthday plans got canceled along with my relationship.

Since you’ve been gone I can do whatever I want.

All I want are the plans we made.

I want to meet someone else immediately. I want to be alone forever. I want to die. I want to feel alive again.

I don’t know what kind of year this is.