I know.
I’ve gone missing. I didn’t
mean it to happen.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been
both single and alone for six
Thanksgivings, seven Christmases, and seven birthdays. All occasions you’d
really like to have friendly people around you, yes? [Note, I said friendly people. Not evil,
energy-draining, soul-sucking narcissists or self-centered prima donnas whose only
purpose in life is to make you as miserable as they are.] That’s 20 days. Spread
those events out over time, take them one by one, they’re mentally manageable. Compressed
into five or six weeks, they form the perfect trifecta of Holiday Hell. [Yes, I’m
a December child.]
Hearing anyone complain about
how busy (s)he was with shopping and relatives and dinners and parties and OMG-please-don’t-make-me-have-another-birthday
made me want to shake (s)he senseless. I would love to have those problems to
complain about. You can bet, having benefit of the opposite perspective, once I
do, I won’t. Bitch, that is.
Of all those single special
days, I’ve only spent maybe four of them with other human life forms. The first
few years, I didn’t mind so much. It was a post-divorce adjustment period. I
mind now. It’s been too long, and my other interminable “situation” doesn’t
help matters or my mood. Add all this stress together and I have little energy
left for creativity. Besides writing, I wanted to do a painting last month, but
every shred of my being is focused on making sure I can still breathe. Every
day, I wake up, check to see if I’m still alive, and start dog paddling again. So many days I feel like I’m drowning.
Exacerbating the stress are
the several folks who still have their hands in my pockets (“Surely she must
have something left we can take.”). I
feel like they’re put stones in my pockets, hastening my sink rate. Even in the
season of dreams and magic, they have no conscience.
After this last
Thanksgiving, I said No More, and Christmas went much better. I hope the New
Year will be even more so. Something has
to change. I have had enough, already.
Posts
