Dear Diary,
Over the last several years, the holidays have become a very dark time for me. Of course, as a child, I loved Christmas. My parents always made our Christmas extravagant, it felt like. They would stay up late wrapping all the presents on Christmas Eve after we had gone to bed and then put them all under the tree. In the morning, Father would play Carol of the Bells by the Trans Siberian Orchestra very loudly, followed by all manner of Christmas music at the same volume until we go up. Then he would march us into the kitchen and proceed to make us a breakfast feast of pancakes and bacon while singing loudly like the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show. And while this was happening we would all be chomping at the bit to get at the huge pile of presents that have buried half the Christmas tree, which we could not touch until after brekkie.
When I became a parent, I tried to continue this tradition with my kids. No, I cannot sing like the Swedish Chef, but I always made brekkie before we could open presents. And I never had to play loud music to wake my children up on Christmas morning. And our tree was never buried under a pile of presents. But I never put the presents there until Christmas morning, because if I did the kids would be asking to open one gift on Christmas Eve. And I would cave and let them. So if they aren’t there yet, there won’t be any asking. I did not have the stability of a two-parent household for my children. I raised them on my own, in every sense of that idea. Financially, physically, mentally, emotionally. They were mine and mine alone. And that was fine. But because of that Christmas was not as extravagant as it was when I was a child. I made most of their gifts and I would scrimp and save and put myself into debt sometimes, to get them each an expensive thing that they really wanted. And because of that, I think my children learned something very valuable about Christmas. That it wasn’t about presents. It was about being together. But a lot of things get in the way of that now it seems. We don’t make things a priority like we used to. I blame so much of that on the timesuck that is the internet. I mean, you’re here reading this now… on the internet.
My parents got divorced when I was like… 10 or something like that. And then Christmas got weird. We had 2. And there was a very stark contrast between them. And when my Father remarried, even more so. Christmas with Mother was very meager and not very jolly. Christmas with my Father was much the same as before but with extra children, and extra grandparents. We had Christmas Eve at my step-sister’s grandmother’s house (the mother of their Father. I know, that sounds very strange. But she treated us like we were hers.) Christmas morning at Dad’s house and then Christmas dinner at my Stepmother’s parent’s house, which was on a farm. It was a wonderful place.
Now that my children have grown, My daughter and her little family in a completely different state, and my son on the other side of Seattle from me, I find myself feeling…. not in the spirit. And it’s been this way for the last 10 years or so. Let’s top that off with being single, which I don’t mind the majority of the time. But my love language is acts of service, and one of the cool things about having a functional and healthy relationship is someone who appreciates your love language every day, and even more so on the Holidays. I love nothing more than having a house full of people on the holidays. I love cooking for everyone. I love watching people open their gifts. Especially if it was something I put time and effort into making. The past few years I’ve not really made anything for anyone. And I don’t really feel like it. I think the last time I felt excited about making something for someone was when one of my shieldmaiden sisters was receiving her Laurel. If I make you something, best believe it was made with my whole heart.
Anyway…. the acts of service thing. It just seems like “Why Bother??????“ No one cares. No one appreciates it. And there was a time when that didn’t matter to me. But I’m sitting here alone and I’m tired and no one cares. That’s not to say that no one cares about me. I know many people who care about me. But they aren’t here. We don’t spend time together. One could even say that they obviously don’t care. And one might be right. I’m not suicidal. But I’m also not feeling like there’s much purpose in me taking up space. And I hate that. I wake up, I work, I pay bills, I take care of my dog, I clean up after myself and others, I go to bed, and then the next day I do the same damn thing. How to get out of the rut?
I find myself pondering all manner of things to write about. Maybe that’s an okay thing. I like writing. I need more writing.
I know that there are so many people who go through this same kind of thing. My heart hurts to know it. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone. I hope you can find a way to find joy in your life. These months are the worst for many people. You are not alone. I’m going to make my coffee now and figure out how I can boost my mood.
Justmemyownself 