This is the first year I’ve voluntarily felt like I could do Christmas.
Not the first year ever. The first after that demarcation point. The After Death Year.
There were years I faked it, and it was excruciating, and wrong, and painful.
There were years I literally stuck to the bed, pillow soaked through with tears, knowing a light would come, gasping for the air that would get me to that spot. That was last year. The fifth year.
This year I have half-decorated trees, bins strewn about the house, no gifts wrapped, company set to arrive in under an hour, and I’m the most at peace I’ve been.
I mastered the art of Fuck It long ago.
Next year could be different. I know that.
Depression isn’t predictable. Liar. Thief.
Grief is a cunt of another stripe. Curling through everyday life, popping in for inopportune visits.
But this year. This year I get to Do Some Things.
And I’m furiously happy about that shit.