Humans are genetically programmed to think of the world in terms of narratives. It's a mental safeguard, in a way. If we considered all the information at our disposal equally, we'd go crazy. Going crazy is not an evolutionarily advantageous tendency.
So instead, we make up comprehensible stories about how things work and exclude all data that contradicts those stories. Scientists of various stripes—neurologists, psychologists, sociologists, and even economists and political scientists—have pointed out this psychological trope in recent years. We keep doing it anyway. How else are we to stay sane?
Like most people, I spend time around the end of each calendar year making up a story about the preceding twelve months. This year, that story was mostly positive. After the clusterfuck that was 2010, 2011 was kind to me. My band lasted for another year, and we put out an album that some people really liked. I switched from full-time to part-time at my restaurant job and started working as a tutor. I added another, higher-profile writing position to my résumé. I made some new friends and retained most of the old ones. My girlfriend and I continued to help each other get through life. There were setbacks, yes, but I thought 2011 was a 'good' year overall.
And then, a few days before December 31st, shit hit the fan. I got laid off from the restaurant. My band got kicked out of its practice space. And I lost an ongoing dispute with the MTA over a spurious ticket that I was sure I'd win.
These events did not reverse the positive parts of the preceding year. Hell, I hated working at the restaurant. Getting laid off puts me in the unenviable position of finding a new job in a terrible market, but I will survive, and might even come out ahead.
Nonetheless, these events contradicted the narrative that I had built around 2011. When I reflected on the year further, it became harder to classify it as 'good,' or as bad for that matter. Too many things happened over its course for me to assign it a single character. A bunch of good stuff happened, but it involved some really rough patches too—at times, I wondered (and still wonder) whether I'm completely fucking up my life.
Reflective people, and especially writers, have a special talent for telling themselves these sorts of stories. This talent makes us good communicators, but also makes us good at deceiving ourselves. 2011 was not a good year or a bad year. It was just another arbitrary expanse of time, during which the world continued to generate events in its thoroughly chaotic manner. Next year, I'd be better off spending my end-of-year reflection time reminding myself that there is no story to tell—that all of this is random, random, random.
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