New Year, Same Me (But Crying at Rabbits)

It’s the New Year. Allegedly a time for fresh starts, bold intentions, and people who suddenly believe a green juice will fix their personality.

Meanwhile, I’m outside crying at bunnies.

Not metaphorical bunnies. Actual, hopping-along-the-end-of-the-road bunnies. The kind that mind their own business and do not consent to being the emotional trigger for a full Watership Down–style breakdown.

Apparently, the Welsh have a word for this feeling: hiraeth. Which loosely translates to a deep longing for a home or time that no longer exists and can never be recreated.

Yes. That. That is exactly what I was doing. On January 2. At 7am. While holding dog poo bags.

When the Calendar Changes but Your Soul Doesn’t

Everyone says New Year is about hope. Reinvention. A clean slate.

My slate appears to be smudged with nostalgia, regret, and the sudden urge to weep over cartoon rabbits who were traumatised in the 1970s.

I don’t even want to go back to a specific moment. I just want the feeling of that moment. The safety. The simplicity. The version of me who hadn’t yet learned what anxiety, disappointment, or Zoloft were. Which brings me neatly to…

To Zoloft or Not to Zoloft

Ah yes. The annual internal debate:

• Am I sad because my brain chemistry is off?

• Or am I sad because existence is weird and time is cruel?

• Or both, teaming up like emotional bullies?

  
  

Part of me thinks, maybe Zoloft would help lift my spirits and confidence. Another part of me thinks, but what if I lose my edge? By “edge” I mean the ability to cry quietly while watching wildlife minding its own business.

Let’s be clear, I’m not anti-medication. I've used this before and it isn't a"magic" pill. Weaning off, I would not recommend, zero stars.

I’m seriously considering Zoloft, not because I’m broken, but because my confidence has gone walkabout and left behind self doubt.

Accepting That Some Longings Have No Cure

Here’s the uncomfortable truth, I know I can never recreate that time. I can’t go back. I can’t rebuild it. I can’t relive it, no matter how much I romanticise it.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

So here I am. A new year. Old feelings. A pocket full of tissues. And a tentative Google search history that includes “hiraeth,” “Zoloft side effects,” and “why do rabbits make me cry?”

If this is what January looks like, I’m choosing to believe February might be slightly less bunny-heavy. Maybe March will be the starts of brighter times, Zoloft takes at least 4-6 weeks to work!

Until then, I’ll be walking, crying, remembering, and laughing at the absurdity of it all, because sometimes the only thing you can do with hiraeth is acknowledge it, name it, and try not to trip over it while picking up dog poo.

Happy New Year.