I’ve begun the gargantuan task of preparing the Christmas card mail out to our extended family. It’s bitter-sweet because while I throughly enjoy the process, the sorting and sifting of cards and allocating them to appropriate families while snacking on velvety plump cherries, it’s also a distressing reminder of my current circumstances.
Circumstances that are yet to improve.
This time last year I was dreading Christmas, fearing the nightmare and misery that was set to descend. I survived by vowing to be out and into my own space the following year. I hoped and prayed and deep down even felt its truth. Yet, here I am and with each card I sink my black ballpoint pen into I am reminded that I still reside under this roof. Despite having adequate time for the miracle I fiercely covet, I can’t help but dwell on that looming December and the agony of facing another deplorable Christmas.
And though a part of me continues praying for a miracle, another is slowly wilting away all hope.
And while I’ve ruled out the possibility of sending my own Christmas cards this year I find myself once again dreaming about the following year. That opportunity to prepare my own mail out with carefully selected cards and specially selected words. Concluding each one with love then stamping the envelopes with my own personal address and all while listening to Christmas carols.
I need to hold onto hope; hope that I’ll finally be permitted to revel in my usual Christmas cheer. To free myself of all humbuggery and consistent acrimony, to just be free.
The freedom to be me.