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Boy, the holidays are rough! Every year I just try to get from the day after Thanksgiving to the day after New Year’s. (Name that film! Hint: Katz Deli doesn’t make sandwiches that good…)
This year, I’m like, I vow to enjoy the season! Through gritted teeth and strong determination, I will white knuckle my way through the gifts I can’t afford, the events, the music, the decorations. We do Hanukkah and Christmas, plus an extra Christmas for cousins and my kid’s birthday right in the middle. Catch my breath for five seconds and then I have to squeeze my cookie-loving ass into something sparkly for the New Year.
When I was little, we spent New Year’s Eve with my grandma, who would mix up rusty nails or gin and tonics (gins and tonic? Is it like attorneys general?) Anyway, Gram loved booze and Dick Clark and she had an arsenal of Andes candies, so I was always happy to watch the ball drop from her television, while my parents celebrated having a free babysitter doing whatever it was parents did in the 80s.
I was happy to be there, until the ball began to drop. The countdown triggered a mortifying response. The closer it got to 1–and the new year—the more tears threatened, until I had to run into the bathroom so I could cry in privacy.
«knock knock»
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
If you want to make an emotional outburst worse, say two things to me:
Are you ok?
Don’t cry!
Well now it’s on you, bub. And I can’t tell you why this sudden wave of melancholy washes over me as the last seconds of the year circle the drain, but it always does. It’s may be that I’ve always experienced the world as two simultaneous existences. One is in the moment, but another part of me is always hovering above, observing and narrating. And that girl can be melodramatic. As New Year’s Rockin’ Eve says good night, Jaime bids farewell to 1986, never to see those days again.
And the thing is, I was right. I fully identified with Sensitive Girl when I was young. And living inside her skin and being acutely aware of the passing of time and what that all meant made everything raw. I knew my days being little with my cousins were numbered, that grandmas didn’t live forever, that parents don’t stay married and that Christmas lights eventually come down.
And that was before I had any bills to pay.
The narrator who lives inside me is always trying to recap the year and tie it up in a neat bow. If you’ve read this far, you know I had a ROUGH fucking year. But I landed as softly as can be. The chapter I wanted to write is that I learned hard lessons, realized who my real friends were, grew stronger from trauma and found peace and happiness.
But I promised you the truth, so here it is.
This year profoundly hurt my spirit and took whole chunks out of my soul. I made hard decisions that worked out to my benefit in the end, but bruised my heart in the process. I have put effort into doing good and restoring my esteem. I have astonished myself by learning I could love again.
Some days, I find peace and happiness. But they’re gone by lunchtime, only to return in the dead of night when my cats are curled up at my side and I can forgive myself the everyday bullshit for a spell. The hard days come fast and furious and randomly. I don’t know how to prevent them or navigate them, but at the very least, now I know they always pass.
Was this a terrible year? Was it a good one?
It was brutal and beautiful. It was 365 days of a fully human life. When the ball drops next Sunday, I know my heart will catch in my throat and my mind will treat me to a montage of poignant memories, never sparing me of the ones that bite, and I’ll cry.
Then I’ll sign up for another go ‘round.
Merry, merry to you beautiful and here’s to not wishing away the tough days!