Write the post, Ellie. You know you can't move on until you do. 

I can't. I don't know how. I won't get it right. 

What's to get right? It's a blog post, not the Magna Carta.

Fuck you, you know this one's a big deal. 

Don't tell me, tell them.

Tell them what? That St. Patrick's Day is one of the most significant days of the year to me? That sounds ridiculous. 

Well, you've got to explain why.

I can't. I barely understand it myself. 

Start at the beginning.

The beginning. What beginning? The beginning of the end?

If that's what it was, then yes.

I don't even know what I mean by that. It just sounds good.

Sure you do. Back up. Start at the start. March 17th, 2012. 

Go fuck yourself. I'm not going back there.

Oh come on. Just a few sentences. Stick to the facts and keep it simple. There and back in a jiffy. Let's go.

Fuck, fine, okay! 

Fall 2011 through Fall of 2012 was one of the most turbulent, terrible, and yet wonderful years of my life. Wholly unrecovered from my divorce and the death of my mom, I'd spent the year prior in a black hole of depression. I had no idea who I was or what to do with my life. My blog design business had died. My savings dried up and I went broke. In a panic, I snuck off to Arizona to dance. I met an abuser there. I moved in with him and brought Chaucer with me. He nearly killed us both. On New Year's Day, I threw my clothes and my dog in a rental car and fled. I came back to LA with nothing more than a crippling sense of shame. Almost immediately, I tumbled into another relationship. Utterly, terrifyingly lost, I clung to my friends, some of whom were not very good for me. I discovered ecstasy. I discovered music festivals. My father got cancer and died within thirteen days of his diagnosis. I grieved my second parent. I clung closer to my friends, some of whom saved my life. In fact, 2012 was the year friendship became the most important thing in the world to me, because it was the only reliable constant in the chaos that was my life. 

In the middle of all this fell a holiday - one that, in its modern American incarnation anyway, has very little to do with family. One that is pretty much just about getting fucked up with your friends - at least in my neighborhood. And in both 2012 and 2013, I had such an amazing time on that holiday, surrounded by people who had come to essentially be my family, and feeling so unbelievably lucky for it, that it forever imprinted a big, green shamrock on my heart. St. Patrick's Day is the day I take stock of my life, looking around to see if I'm still a good enough person to have people that want to celebrate with me. It's silly and irrational. Not everyone even wants to go out on St. Paddy's. But it's the one day more than any other that I need to feel the thing that has kept me alive the past five years: friendship. Companionship. It doesn't even matter to me that each year I spend it with different people. What matters to me is that I'm not alone, on March 17th. That I feel loved and cared for and understood by at least one goddamn person. Ridiculous I know, but there it is. It's my day.

I thought you were going to keep it simple.

Yeah, well.

And what do you want to say about this year?

That it was everything I needed, again. That I wasn't alone. That, for another year anyway, I've fooled at least two people into thinking I'm not horrible. That I felt safe, liked, loved, connected. That I laughed and danced and drank, and ran around in a crowd of others who, like me, just wanted to lose themselves in a day of play with their friends. That that's all I wanted. 

That I still feel lucky.

There. That wasn't so bad, was it?