Holiday season

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt any kind of emotion at this time of year. I don’t actually recognize the reason. I can’t think of anything that made me hate or despise this part of the year, but the only thing that comes to mind when December hits is: “Please, Universe, make January come tomorrow,” so I don’t have to dress up, put on makeup, and pretend to be happy when I’m not.

I’m not happy about Christmas or New Year. They’re just dates—“celebrations,” as you may call them. But what can I celebrate when the only thought in my head tells me to go to bed early so the hours can pass without me noticing them?

I can’t deal with the holidays. I just can’t. But society tells me that I have to. What if I don’t want to? What then? Am I a horrible person? Am I the Antichrist? Does this feeling make me the Grinch? Does this time of year hurt? YES, IT DOES.

It hurts because it reminds me that some time ago there would be dozens of people at my mum’s house, getting ready. The whole family would come and bring something, because, obviously, my mum assigned responsibilities clearly and neatly to everyone. “She’s going to bring this, he’s going to bring that, and you two will take care of those.” And no one would say anything to her. She was the commander. What she said had to be done.

My dad, uncles, and grandpas would be next to the barbecue. My aunts would set the table while my mum arranged the salads and everything else. In the meantime, my cousins, my little sister, and I would be in my room, getting our clothes ready, doing our makeup, fixing our hair—helped by whoever was free at the moment.

Everything used to be perfect. But not now.

Now there’s no gathering. There’s no food on the table. There’s nothing but empty chairs. And gathering and celebrating feels awful to me. It sits on my chest like an elephant’s foot. Because I hate this type of holiday.

I hate being an adult and realizing that Dad won’t be at the barbecue, that my grandpas won’t be talking about politics and telling funny stories about their youth. My aunts don’t talk to each other anymore. My cousins don’t pay attention—they have their own lives. And I feel like I don’t have a life. Like I don’t deserve one.

This is not a time to celebrate. This is a time to escape.

I don’t want to celebrate while my head keeps spinning, thinking about how things would have been if nobody had died in less than three years. Everybody is gone. And I can’t cope with that.

I just can’t.

So forgive me if I’m not the Christmassy person you wish I were, but I’m not good at lying or performing.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all of you.
See you in hell.

Over and out.