Dear 2017,
You’ve been one terrible decade.
When midnight arrives on December 31st it won’t be a millisecond too soon, though when it does—it will feel less like celebration and more like acknowledging survival. It won’t be a jubilant national dance party, but a grim memorial for the many good things that died.
This is usually the spot on the calendar when people’s hearts soften and they find themselves becoming introspective; rewinding through the previous twelve months and feeling some sweet blend of gratitude and nostalgia as they do. Despite all of the attrition and sadness that may have accompanied the last year, they tend to let go of some of those things and to find some kind of affection for it.
If you’re hoping for this you can forget it.
You’ve been a twelve-month trip through hell and a good many of us have simply had it with you.
And look, we know it isn’t really your fault. You couldn’t help when you showed up on the scene, the stupefying sh*t show you inherited, the seemingly endless parade of horrible stuff that would happen on your watch.
We know you can’t do anything about the monsters who’ve been let loose since you got here either—to say nothing of the ever-present Orange Elephant in the Room; a man who’s historically malevolent contribution has made you coming out of all of this looking like anything but an abject disaster an impossibility. You were never going to win tethered to a cancer like that.
Every piece of predatory legislation, every disjointed Twitter rant, every shameless civil rights atrocity—every ignorant, sickening, embarrassing, vomit-inducing fragment of this unprecedented human dirty bomb, is now part of your resume preserved for posterity.
That’s not fair to you, we realize. You’re just playing the terrible hand you’ve been dealt—and yours is as bad as it gets.
That being said, 2017: you need to go.
You’ve done too much damage.
You’ve aged us horribly.
You’ve made us lose sleep and peace and faith and sanity.
You’ve given us gray hair and worry lines and a sick feeling when we wake each morning.
You’ve made us eat emotionally and drink copiously and cry easily.
You’ve robbed us of pride in our nation, trust of leaders, belief in right prevailing.
You’ve put a barrier between us and people we once loved and trusted.
You’ve emboldened racists and conspiracy theorists and Christian nationalists.
You’ve shown us an ugliness we hoped wasn’t still as prevalent as it now seems to be.
And yes, 2017 we’ve tried to make the best of you, we really have.
We’ve pushed back against the worst things that came along with you.
We’ve resisted bigotry and wall-building and fearmongering and political plundering.
We’ve fought to live as normally as we could in unfathomably abnormal times.
We’ve created and dreamed and loved and spent every waking moment doing what we could to redeem you as often as we were able—and we are profoundly exhausted.
This year there were things that we are grateful for, of course—but only because we worked so tirelessly to make them a reality. Ultimately we’re going to remember you most for the horror you were all too consistent in manufacturing for so many of us, and for the many beautiful things we missed while trying to keep the persistent wolves away from our healthcare and our neighbors and our standing in the world.
Hopefully with the distance that comes with time, we’ll be able to forget some of the details of just how painful and disheartening you’ve been. Maybe one day we’ll be able to look back and appreciate you a bit more.
Yet while we’re hopeful we’ll eventually feel better about you, we’re equally afraid we soon may also look back on you and realize that you were nothing compared to what was coming.
But right now we’ve just fully had it with you, 2017.
You really sucked, and there’s no way to sugar coat it.
You’re a year we wish we never lived to see.
You left us sleep-deprived, gray-haired, grieving, facepalming, and counting the days until we could change the calendar.
As the old adage goes, time flies when you’re having fun—and you were one long decade.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
(And 2018, if you’re reading this: Be good to us. We deserve it.)
