It is the weekend before Christmas and I have no time to write today, just as you have no time to read anything I have to say.
I haven’t written anything for four days because I don’t have anything uplifting to say.
And it is YOUR Christmas, too, after all.
So please be warned.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here
There will be no good cheer today. There will be no angels singing on high. There will be no Story of the Magi that ends with a tearful exchange of a useless hair comb and a worthless watch bob.
For Jeff and me, I fear that this will end up becoming the Christmas that never was.
The last REAL Christmas Jeff and I had was the year he sang this song at church on Christmas Eve. I wish I had a decent recording of my husband singing it. Instead, we’ll just have to suffer through Jackson Browne’s version.
Last year, my mother was dying. Everything about Christmas this year reminds me of that. And what doesn’t remind me of that reminds me of the fact that I turn 50 in three days. And I’m just not very happy about that either.
Last year–in my desperate attempt to compensate for the dying person laying in the guest room–I over-decorated. There were reindeer to left of me, reindeer to the right, and here we were, stuck in the middle with FOUR CHRISTMAS TREES and her.
This year there isn’t one ornament on the tree. The ornament box has sat next to the tree for a week, and at this point I’m fairly well tempted to haul it back out to the garage and pronounce Christmas “DOA”.
Both Jeff and I work Christmas this year, so it doesn’t really matter anyway. There is always next year.
I just realized that I think I’ve forgotten to take my Wellbutrin for that past two days. Maybe I ought to go take one of those. I feel a crying jag coming on.
Okay. I’m back. I went and took my Mother’s Little Helper. Berating myself for being such a wimp.
The old Chloe wouldn’t have taken anti-depressants.
The old Chloe would have gone on a flying rage spree while secretly fantasizing about putting a gun barrel in her mouth.
I think my family would agree that the new medicated Chloe is better.
Certain factions of the internet would also agree.
Depression is fucking depressing.
See why I haven’t written?
I don’t want to write this shit, and sure as hell, nobody wants to read it.
Long-time readers probably already know that my use of profanity increases proportional to my fucked-up emotional state.
There’s some sort of algebra equation in it, I’m sure. Like:
If X equals Chloe’s emotional health, and Y is the level of her total frustration with this stupid universe that may or may not be driven by an all-knowing, loving God, then Z is the sum total of how many profane words she uses on any given day.
Speaking of God and the crazy way he runs this stupid universe, in case anyone is wondering, I am not very happy about God’s stinginess towards my daughter and his refusal so far in giving my little girl a baby. What’s up with that anyway? Do you know how many worthless pieces of shit parents there are in this world who are fertile?
Don’t even get me started.
I try not to think about how upset I am about this, and how sad my little girl is, because I’m afraid I may just chuck whatever faith I have left. I think she’s afraid that’s what is going to happen too.
Ho. Ho. Ho.