As I’ve gotten older, and wiser. I’ve really started to hate Christmas. There’s just so much pressure and build up for this one day to be so perfect and happy.
Mine wasn’t so good this year. N was up all night Christmas Eve with a cold, and I had to wake him at 8.30. Even at nearly 2, I’ve waited to see the glee and happiness on his face at all of his presents. He still doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t understand that the badly hidden boxes wrapped in sparkly paper actually have something inside them. He didn’t want to open them. And when they were open, he couldn’t wait to get them out of the box to play with… couldn’t have given less of a fuck about opening the rest if he tried. And that’s okay, he’s only small. I can deal with that. I found it harder to deal with the fact that he didn’t eat any of his Christmas dinner, and threw fucking huge tantrums all day because things weren’t going his way.
Christmas dinner was fabulous aside from me breaking a plate, tipping a whole jug of gravy down my wall and fucking up the trifle (that’s near impossible because it’s a packet one)… but i just couldn’t cope with it all. I found myself miserable on Christmas Day. I wanted to be happy and jolly.
When people ask me how my Christmas was, I so badly want to turn around and tell them that it was great. That we ate, drank and were merry.
It wasn’t. And we weren’t.
Nothing really bad happened, and I feel so guilty for not enjoying it. I felt so much pressure to make everything wonderful and perfect, that it took away from the magic of it all.
On boxing night, I found myself rocking alone in my bedroom, crying into my pillow because I’m just not okay. And it’s finally cracked me. I don’t see happiness and joy, even though I have so much to be happy and thankful for. Some of my friends and family have had a really shit year. They’ve lost people and has their lives blown apart by said losses. But just because that hasn’t happened to me, does not make my feelings any less entitled or justified.
My feelings are validated.
Depression is a demon that forces your mind to battle with itself everyday. It tells you that you aren’t good enough. You aren’t a good enough mum, you’re a shitty fiancée. You aren’t good enough at anything. They would all be better off if you just didn’t exist (not a suicidal threat, just a theoretical). All you do is moan. You’re never going to be happy again. People don’t like you, they aren’t your friends. Who would want to be your friend?
It’s time to admit, once more, that I am not okay. And I need help. I need support with fixing myself. I am a good mum, I’m a good fiancée, and I’m a fierce and fantastic friend. I know that, it just sometimes takes a beating from the depression. I’m sick of second guessing myself, and I don’t want to be like this anymore.
I don’t set New Years resolutions. I prefer to see them as goals. This time next year, I want this to be all a bad memory and a learning curve. I have to accept that I’m going to have a shitty day here and there, but I’m not ready to accept that this is how my life is going to be forever.
Next Christmas, I will be better. And next Christmas will be great. I just know it. N will be more engaged with the idea of Santa, and maybe he’ll even open a few presents without losing his shit. Who knows? But I won’t be crying into my pillow on Boxing night. You’ll find me on the sofa with Daddy, eating shortbread and drinking wine.
I’m thankful for all of you that read, and help me with your messages of support. I’m thankful that even if I feel alone, I’m not. This is where I need to thank Daddy for being my rock in such dark times. He’s pulled me through everything so far, and I’m sure he will this time too.
So thank you, and I hope that all of your Christmases were what you imagined and that your 2017 is the best year yet. I’m striving to make mine good. I’m lucky enough to be here, and I’m going to fight to get better.