Merry Christmas, I think…

I’m typing this last, even though it’s the first thing you’re reading: read this if only you want depression as a Christmas present.

A moment of honesty: I’ve never looked forward to Christmas. Wait, I think I’ve admitted to that before. I just have different memories than most people, anger and screaming. Threats and embarrassment. Trying to be as small as possible. Here I am, 33 years old, and all of those days are like old scars tightening when a storm front moves in, Christmas day. Emotional arthritis. I’m relatively better now, much better than I was 2 years ago, but still a ways to go, hopefully. The odd thing about emotional scars is that you can’t just wish them away. They stick with you, and some things make them linger longer than others, but sometimes they fade away, but only after a while, only after you leave them alone. But Christmas Day shows up like clockwork, rolling in, and even though I see the happiness in everyone else’s faces, I can’t help but feel alone, that storm wall that I hid behind for so long, protecting me from a gale that no longer exists. And the ache in my metaphorical bones still comes and goes.

I’m not a Scrooge. I don’t wish Christmas would go away, although the roll up to it has become overlong, like clouds in the distance that I try to ignore for months. No, I want everyone else to be happy as they open presents; I don’t want people to be as miserable as I was as a kid, opening presents, and hearing the yelling. Or spending time in a stranger’s attic, with a cheap remote control transforming truck that had a laser you stuck in his belly that would light up when I pushed a button. I miss that truck, but I don’t miss the sense of being uprooted that was endemic of my childhood years.

And as strange as this might sound, typing this out, facing up to those rough years, this is my Christmas present to myself. Because by facing them, I can remember that they no longer exist, except in my mind. Hopefully next year, I’ll have someone to share Christmas with and be too busy to worry about, to remember events that can’t hurt me anymore. This year might be a wash, but the future is always waiting for us.

Oh, and another Christmas present: I found the website for the busty antiquities expert. Yum.

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