I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed New Years. I know I did as a kid, but recent years have found me alone and between boredom and panic. My quiet New Years’ are, for the most part, self imposed, the fallout of compounding decisions over the years that have left me mostly isolated on a day I impress a lot of value onto.
December 28th of last year, I was so afflicted with the fear of death and dying and knawing loneliness that I gave myself my first real panic attack in years, laying awake in bed terrified, thinking I was having a heart attack. Thinking I was going to die the way my brother did. I spent half of 2025 dealing with the aftermath of that panic attack.
In 2025, I gained thirty pounds after getting back on antidepressants. I held a barbecue after telling myself for years no one was interested. I self isolated from loved ones more than once. I went to the shore more times than I have in recent memory. I stopped seeing movies by myself and started going for nighttime drives instead. I spent a lot of money, fruitfully and frivolously, and managed to save some along the way. I wore a Halloween costume for the first time since High School. I laid mulch in the garden in April instead of June. I went back to therapy. I rediscovered most of my friendships, and also found some new ones. I gave up trying to run and started walking daily instead. I realized that I do still like being an artist.
This New Years, I am expecting to be in the quiet company of some old and new friends. I’m grateful for the gifts 2025 has given me, and believe in the promise of a new year for the first time in a long time.
In early November of this year, a switch flipped, and it was like art making made sense again.
Post graduation burn out turned to malaise and indifference, and despite being surrounded by artists and the arts, I questioned my worth as and my reasons for being an artist. Rationale failed regardless, as creating didn’t feel fun but urgent like it once had, it felt laborious and stale; unnecessary.
Last month, I woke up, for the first time in years, with a sense of urgency and a drive to return to Manville and her rivers. I’d never left physically, but I was mentally and emotionally absent from my practice.
This month, with my mom laid up post total hip replacement surgery and myself on FMLA leave, I found an abundance of free time, the most I’ve had since my summer after graduation. The moments I was able to find in between helping my mom recover were a little sabbatical for me, time I was so thankful to have.
I’m so grateful, this Christmas, to have found Manville again.
After Jason died, my mom was given a bag of his belongings, the items he had on him at the time of his death. That night, he had worn a button down for his performance, which was included amongst the articles. I was initially bewildered by the way all the buttons had been torn clean from the shirt, only to realize that it had been ripped open to perform life saving measures by the paramedics after their arrival on site. In those days, I’d made Jason’s bedroom a shrine, his clothes laid out on his bed alongside various mementos from the night.
Days later, Jason received a package from Amazon in the mail. When I pulled the neat red button down I’d helped him shop for from the mailer, I sobbed uncontrollably for the first time since he’d died - I’d been so focused on keeping up appearances and being gracious and stoic in the funeral preparation that I hadn’t allowed myself to grieve. I was absolutely inconsolable. Only after I’d replaced his torn shirt laid out on his bed with the new button down did I allow myself to calm down. I was 19. I still have both of the shirts.
Next Sunday will mark seven years since Jason died. I still think about him everyday, and I expect to continue to think about him everyday until my own death.
Thank you, brother, for everything.
Reflecting on some old photos of Manville friends, family, and those in between from the archive. Some of these made the cut for Where the Millstone River Drains.
1. Jason, Summer 2018
2. Phoenix and Aaron at Bridges, Spring 2018
3. Scarlett Simpson, Summer 2021
4. Gloria Fierro, Winter 2017
5. Manville Ave, Summer 2018
6. Valley Kids, Kyle, and Scarlett, Spring 2021
7. Aaron mows my lawn, Summer 2020
