I’m staring at this blank word document trying to sum up
enough energy to put some words on this page that make sense. Mostly, I'm just venting about my disposition because, at minimum, it's therapeutic. As I begin this, I only have a few
more hours to write before I have to put on a mask of makeup and dance my way
onto the stage, smiling while singing while sweating, and spreading loads of
holiday cheer. My goal is to let my adrenaline push me through this show so
that I can get home to reunite with my bottle of Cabernet and sulk about my mental
and emotional state of being. We’re in the thick of another holiday season, and
once again, I hate my life. During this time of year, I often feel like that
kid who watches the other kids play outside from inside her living room window.
Another holiday party picture is posted to Instagram. Another Christmas engagement
is announced. Another “Santa brought us a baby this year” status update. And
though I share in your joy (yes YOU with the puppy your now fiancé gifted you, with a princess cut diamond ring strung from its neck), the reality for many of
us is that Santa didn't bring us a damn thing—not a Christmas card (hell, I’ll
even take an e-card), not a “Happy Holidays” phone call from estranged
siblings. It is certainly NOT the most wonderful time of year for those of us
who suffer from routine depression and anxiety. Our lack of participation in
holiday festivities is accompanied by gray skies and unfriendly blizzards, and
the daunting realization that another year is coming to a close and I am not
where I want to be or think I should be. I post a picture on Instagram of a new
laptop that “Santa” brought me, hoping that I’d feel better about my annual excuse to splurge on myself. I later post a picture of
me next to a Christmas tree at the one and only holiday party I attended this
season. The truth is, I hate Christmas! That’s right! I am a self-proclaimed
Grinch, unashamedly bitter and unapologetically moody. I hate to love the
Christmas trees that I see around town because I don’t have one of my own; my
“Jesus Is the Reason” playlist had me balling on the bus the other day, and to buy gifts for people who have everything is annoying. My mom’s coming in town on Monday to celebrate
Christmas with me (and see my show) and all I wanna do is crawl up in a hole
somewhere until this retched holiday season is over.
I’d like to
think that this is just a phase; but I've been crawling into this hole for
quite some time now. My parents divorced when I was too young to remember so
I've never shared the holidays with both of them together. [I guess I'm still bitter about that] I primarily spent
Thanksgiving's and Christmas' with my mom and her side of the family. The few
times I attempted to spend the holidays with my dad as well, I discovered that I hated
bouncing around from house to house with barely enough time to communion and
fellowship with my loved ones, or whoever those strange people are. The events of Hurricane Katrina further
complicated things, dispersing the members of the family to various regions of
the country. With the home base of my mother’s side of the family being split
between Georgia and Louisiana, our yearly traditions changed drastically
or have been done away with all together. Midnight mass on Christmas morning
followed by breakfast? Gone. Frantically unwrapping presents around a fresh smelling Christmas tree? Gone. Our mini family reunions hosted by Aunt Sharon and Uncle
Philip? Displaced. With my career putting me in different parts of the country
during this time of year, I’m lucky if I even get to see my family. My gifts are intangible now, coming in the form of wired money from
my parents that I will most likely use to pay mounting graduate school debt. There
will be no potluck-style family dinner this year. I will be masking my somber
emotions whilst trying to entertain my mother over a strip steak and glass of
wine that will briefly tame my temper. As she attempts motherly small talk about the latest guy I'm dating (or whatever), I'll be internally contemplating what Christmas even means to me anymore, wishing for the solitude that I hate, yet have built my life around.
Two years ago, I spent Christmas in the city, away from all
of my family. I worked a double shift at the restaurant on Christmas Eve and
got out just in time to hear the midnight bells ring from neighboring cathedrals.
I took the long way home that night, walking past Rockefeller Center. I had
been so busy that fall, working to merely make ends meet, that I’d completely
lost touch with the holidays. I stopped at the infamous Rockefeller Christmas
tree and swallowed my tears. I felt like the little boy in Home Alone 2, except
my mother wasn't going to come running up from behind to surprise me. It was
just me and that giant pine tree, the hundreds of spectators fading into the
watercolor of my dripping mascara. In that moment, I learned to hate Christmas
for all of its commercialized glory—for letting me down, for the homeless freezing in the cold as we rush by in the subway, and for its fading magic that will seemingly never be reignited. There was no miracle
on 34th street that year, or last year. Sure, I've posted some pictures on social
media that would suggest otherwise, but my fake Christmas joy has all run out.
My engine is on E, I have depleted my resources for caring, and the mask has
hardened and cracked.
This year, I would like to celebrate the birth of Jesus in a
cocoon of my feelings. I am grateful for all that I have, including a God who
loves me in spite of my anxiety and depression. I would like to honor Jesus and
God without mistletoe, wreathes, pine trees, and shiny plastic balls. I’m not
trying to fix my mental health state this year, pretending to enjoy your tragic
renditions of “O Holy Night,” all of which are inferior to Mariah Carey's. I just want to enjoy the greatest gift of all this year—the gift of
life— in the (dis)comfort of my cold hotel room, sipping spiked cider, and NOT
posting pictures on Facebook of my fake happiness. I’m a Grinch who doesn't
aspire to steal your Christmas joy, but yearns be honest and transparent about the lack thereof, and to tell the world that it is okay. It’s okay to be sad during
the holidays and to let others know how you really feel. The less you put on,
the more sincere and genuine you’ll be. I don’t desire for others to feel
sympathy for me, but I do hope that they respect my disposition and not guilt
trip me with that “Jesus is the reason…you should at least be glad about that”
rhetoric. I already find myself scolding my inner demon for being ungrateful...I don't need help with that. My wish this Christmas is to be a better person. Can Santa bring me that? Mostly, I want to love God, celebrate Jesus, and walk in my purpose. I don't need you to gift me an ugly Christmas sweater for that. I want to create new traditions, such as feeding and clothing the homeless instead of roasting nuts on a fire. Of course I yearn to rediscover the joy of the holiday season; but tonight, I'm taking this giant sleeping pill, feeding my alcoholic appetite with a nice red blend, hoping to pass out until I have to mask my face for my matinee performance tomorrow. So cheers, folks. Merry Christmas...or whatever.
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