Lat nat this wrechched wo thyn herte gnawe. But manly set the world on sexe and seune - Chaucer

New Year is notably not my best time of year.

I have tons of poetry bemoaning the state of my psyche on New Year's Day and it looked like this year might just step up and walk bravely in those same old footsteps.

The past six years have all been good ones. Partly because I've learned to ask for what I need and make do with what I've got; and partly because I have people in my life who are empathetic and loving and not competing with me for who is the most pitiful.

Pitiful, pronounced, pity full, was something I grew up believing was desirable. As in, if I am pitiful enough everyone will feel sorry for me and love me. Of course that is not true, but old habits die hard.

They do die though.

I just spent the past six days moving between bed and recliner. Sleeping cocooned in my soft blanket in the chair while the television droned in the background. Sleeping tucked up in bed after reading a few of pages of The Great Santini.

It is pretty obvious how I was feeling, but I was in too deep to do anything about it.

As I dramatically prepared myself for a miserable New Year's, turning off my phone, and settling in for a long winter's mope, something happened.

I don't know exactly why, but I turned the phone back on, received and sent numerous New Year Greetings, listened to Auld Lang Syne, first sung and played by Bestest and then played by my youngest son for me over the phone followed by a long chat -- all of which made me glad I had turned that phone on.

This New Year will be another good one, making that a chain of seven good years following six not so good days. I don't know why I've been at sixes and sevens lately, but I'm glad it's over. I would hope that all my New Years will be good ones from here on out.