For some reason, when I write about the holidays, my posts feel fairly melancholic (surprise). So, this year I’m attempting to not be so melancholic, although, last Christmas I was – depressed (surprised?). Even though my mom was here, I felt lonely, and normally I like to be alone so this was unusual. But there you have it, the holidays, a gold sparkly rush of glittery depression spanning from childhood to adulthood.
So what’s the deal, yo? Well, if we stretched out my holiday revelry timeline, you would see that I never seem to have a normal Hollywood Thanksgiving or Christmas. A couple of times drugs have been involved, me watching them, and feeling utterly saddened by the sight.
Then there was the time I barfed up Pua’s lovingly cooked Tofurky. Nothing says thank you for inviting me for Thanksgiving dinner like tossing up the meal in the toilet, in my friend’s modest apartment with her two children, and the sound of retching from mommy’s friend. Maybe I was a quiet barfer?
Let’s see, the abusive relationship Thanksgiving and Christmas. Fighting, silent treatments and feeling stupid and trapped are never good times any time of year. Ah, and the NYC Christmas where I flew out to be with my best friend then discovered how much we had grown apart. Or childhood when I lied about how many presents I got for Christmas because I was ashamed at how little I received in comparison to my friends.
Yeah, I don’t think I like the holidays. Nice idea and all. But travel is a terror, and there is all this expectation that isn’t met, and that’s the last thing I want to give or receive.
Then there was the green bean casserole incident. And frankly, too many moments like Bridget Jones’ Diary All By Myself scene too rehash and remember.Or the year this guy was so disappointed to be spending Christmas with just me when another friend cancelled. That was a bag of jolly jelly donuts.
In fact, I started my yearly reflection and goals journal writing habit during the holidays. During my freshman year in high school as a way to cope with the fact that I wasn’t out there having the kind of holiday that I was supposed to have via society/culture/whomever.
Of course, there were nice times, like the
food poisoning in Laos and Vancouver BC Christmas. I feel more hopeful this year. Not because I’m lowing expectations, but because I feel like I’m coming into my own (as folks like to say). I’m getting into my writing skin. I like where I live. I have great friends. And perhaps even more surprising with age, I’ve gotten better at being myself.
Now that, seems like the best present of all. Awww. Barf.