Fuck Christmas!

For the second Christmas Eve in three years I am indulging in a spot of sulking.

I’ve become a bah humbug, a grinch, a sad sack. I spread all the Christmas cheer but inside I dread the calendar clicking over to twenty-five.

Can you blame me?

2014 Christmas Eve was spent hunched over in a lukewarm bath crying about my boyfriend cancelling our Christmas plans at the last minute and leaving town to see his folks. In 2015, much of December was spent fearing for my life (that story is for another day). Whilst I was able to wake to the squeals of delight from my children that Christmas morning, the hum of anxiousness was ever-present. And now it’s 2016 and the only thing that’s changed is that my tears are pooling on my pillow rather than filling up my bath. I cry myself to sleep like a four-year old who didn’t get the Barbie Dreamhouse for Christmas.

Before you RSVP to my pity party over here you should know that I am a lucky one. I don’t have bombs falling from the sky and sometime today the house will be filled with those same squeals of delight.

Still, what I want to know is: if I have people to love and people who love me, how did I end up spending Christmas Eve/morning alone?

In the days leading up to today I spouted the benefits of 36 hours to myself. I believed my own bravado until shit got real sometime around the eight hour mark. My throat became tight as if my tendons were embroiled in a game of tug-o-war, the creases between my brows deepened, and the feigned smile slipped off my face. Space to oneself is a luxury, just not at Christmas time.

In an effort to lift my bottom lip off the floor, I hauled out my happy pack, which included playing music at volume 30 (the sweary hip hop kind followed by the perky carols kind), writing, laying in the sun and then relishing the cool ocean water washing over my warm body.

No one could say that I didn’t give happiness a red hot go. All these things helped to build my resilience once upon a time, but right now they can’t scuff away the sadness. I am resigned to my melancholy.

On Christmas Eve and Day I yearn to be part of a white picket fence family. Not the same one (that ship has sailed), but family 2.0 would be lovely. I’m not even greedy. I would be satisfied with having one for just these two days. Single motherhood can have the other 363.

I may be moping now, but I’m sure that come tomorrow I will re-embrace my independent, blessed life with a grateful heart.

Merry Christmas x