It seems every year now, I whine about my sad holidays. I suppose at some point, I should shut up and learn to live with it, quietly. The Christmas away from family has been the norm now for the last few years. 2009 was the last year I got to spend with my family and it was not the same when I did.
This year, I really tried. Right after Thanksgiving, I put up the tree and decorated it; even put lights outside for the first time. Since that weekend though, the enthusiasm has dwindled. Maybe it’s the cold, seeping into our bones. Perhaps it could be the job situation wearing on my soul. I have been in homebody mode all December. It’s a quiet year without parties or fanfare, with no plans at all for Christmas eve or the day itself. Instead, I’m cleaning and making presents and trying not to think about my sick father, my lack of permanent employment or my childlessness.
I think of those less fortunate when I start to feel sorry for myself, but then I just find my heart being pulled under the surface of depression. I’d like to hope that the Christmas spirit finds me, but in reality, I am not betting on it. It’s funny, in that bittersweet way, how last year, without decoration or baking or a tree, I was sad, but I figured it had to do with being sick. This year, I think maybe I’m just not a Christmas person anymore.
I used to wait all year for this holiday. The singing, the treat baking, the shopping, the family time, the parties, the love. Maybe it’s not my day anymore, maybe that’s OK. Perhaps that means someone else needs that feeling more than I do.