Taking down the Christmas tree
Is so unbelievably painful. I know you’re rolling your eyes at this stupid spoiled white suburban brat whining about missing Christmas, and that’s fine. Scroll on, or whatever. I know I’m lucky in so many ways.
But I think about: what I wish I had with my mom. I think about: how I wish Daddy were still alive. I think about: how fucking hard some of the holiday was due to family tensions and such. I think about: how someday, likely next year, I’ll have to spend Christmas away from my mother and how that scares me because she is a widow and needs therapy and my brother is a dolt and how will they get through it? How will I manage the guilt of not being there? I think about how happy these little things, the ornaments, make me. I think about how each one has a memory with it, of curling up with my brother to watch Star Wars or camping on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon with my whole family (back when we were a Whole family), of seven-year-old curling up at a family friend’s house for Christmas and then she gives me this box and I open it and it’s two little girl ornaments, and just as I think the pink-dress-one looks like me, we all realize that she’s shattered on the bottom and I start to cry.
There’s just a lot wrapped up in Christmas and so much that I love and all of which is so emotional and painful, either because it’s painfully sweet and going away, or because it is truly painful. And do I write a letter to my mother? She’s so good at shrugging or laughing off my feelings and making me feel ridiculous or stupid and I don’t know what I’d even say, I love you, I wish I could share more of my feelings with you? And no matter how I tried to explain why I can’t or how it hurts, she’d be defensive because that’s her way.
I can’t stop crying and I feel ridiculous. And I just need to take these ornaments off this cheap dead tree and wrestle it to the curb.