Choirs Will Be Ringing Silent Night…

I am driving home in my car, listening to the music on the radio.  The constant barrage of holiday hits, from “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” to “Silent Night,” “All I Want for Christmas Is You” to “The Little Drummer Boy.”  All of them, playing, nonstop, as is the custom every holiday season.

I don’t mind it.  I don’t mind it one bit.  I love the holiday music.  I love the lights.  I love giving gifts.  I love the magic of it all.  Yes, magic.  There’s still something very magical about seeing a tree decorated, glistening with the thought put into the placement of each and every single ornament, every single light, the gifts sparkling underneath, the anticipation of it all.

And yet, I find myself in a world of melancholy at the holidays.  Every year, it always seems to be the same wave of emotion that comes over me.

It’s hard to explain, but I shall do my best.

This melancholy stems from the magic…wanting so desperately for it to be a magical, wonderful, joyous event.  But I find that each year gets harder and harder.

When did the magic start do disappear?

Perhaps five years ago, with the diagnosis of my disease.  Suddenly, things like presents and holiday cheer took a back seat to regimented pill treatments and making moments count.  The idea that nothing is permanent.

Was that the beginning of it all?  I don’t know.  But I know that this year, as one particular song came on while I drive, “Please Come Home For Christmas,” I was struck by the melancholy again.  And I knew that if I were an alcoholic, I’d be in a bar somewhere, hunched over my glass of holiday cheer, dreaming of happier times.

I realized that I am alone for the holidays.  This is not a revelation, as the world is filled with people who have no one to spend their holiday time, to make memories.  I think this particular holiday is particularly sad because a year ago, the melancholy was combated by having a partner…with our Santa and Snowmen stockings, our own little traditions, hanging the paper star from our first Christmas together on the tree, and just reveling in all the season had to offer, thankful for each other.

There is a fight waging within my being about the entire holiday as well.  I *want* to give gifts.  I want to spoil the people I love rotten.  I want to be able to afford the nice things they’ve only dreamed about, and give them a bit of magic.  A trip to Scotland?  Done!  An iTouch?  Check!  A laptop?  Absolutely!  All of these things I would love to bring them, to see their faces light up with joy because someone listened…someone was paying attention during the previous year to a throwaway comment but now is a tangible…no longer a dream.

And yet, I can’t.  I look at my checking account, and breath a heavy sigh, knowing that no matter how many hours I work, no matter how much time I put ahead, there is that Sword of Damocles hanging over my head…the dreaded health insurance premium, set to go up January 1st.  Money is already tight as it is, and I see no way out, except to continue to work until my body gives out completely and I am useless.  A raise is out of the question.  And no benefits are possible.  Absolutely none.

I have done my due diligence, reaching out to those organizations who are supposed to be there to help support those in need, but because on paper it says I make too much money, I am ineligible for anything.  Yet here I sit, struggling to put food on the table, struggling to keep a roof over my head, struggling to keep things positive when clearly there is so much in this downward spiral.

I try to remain light.  Even today, as I wander through the mall, looking at the things I can’t afford to buy, wishing I could spread a little holiday cheer, I kept a smile on my face.  I engaged with babies out with their parents doing their holiday shopping.  I was pleasant to every single sales associate who asked me if they could help me find something — because I am light.

But as the end of the evening draws near, and I get in the car, turn on the radio, and hear the familiar strains of “Please Come Home for Christmas,” that familiar melancholy washes over me again.

And alone, I drive home.  I’ll take in the tree that I’ve decorated, shared with no one.  I’ll look at the decorations on the table, wondering what’s the point of them all.  And at the end of the day, I’ll send my positive energy out into the universe, hoping that those choirs singing silent night will radiate some of those heavenly beams down on someone who believes, who always has, and always will.

 

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Posted on December 9, 2012, in Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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