I’m sick. I’m depressed-ish. I’m cranky and quiet like a small child with no friends, feeling the lack of physical affection in a way that makes me wish I never ever had it. I lived for years with no one touching me-I can do it again, right?
Sigh. I don’t want to. I crave affection. I crave the simple touch, more than I’ll ever crave sex. Maybe I’m old for this to happen. Maybe I’m just too sick and all I want is to fall backwards into someone, safely, have my back rubbed and my hair played with. (Maybe not on this last part-my hair hurts when I’m sick)
What bothers me right now, is the heaving sigh of irritation at which I’m staring at Christmas. The effort. The stuff. I don’t want to play happy family for Christmas, I don’t want to go shopping, I don’t want to pretend that anyone wants to get my a present I just want to bury my head in the sand and wait for it to all go away.
I usually like Christmas. I love the sounds and the smells and the paper and the newness. The potential. Right now though, I’m in an eeyore place and only seeing the bad things. The money I can’t afford to spend. The things they won’t get, the happy mother they won’t have. While I’m ok with the principal behind our separation, I don’t want to be alone, and it echoes in my chest, the thought of not being a family, a true family for this Christmas, first of many.
So I’m likely fatalistic, sitting here trying to breathe and now sweating from this sickness that won’t leave me. But I’d like to skip to January if you don’t mind, to where it might be better, and I won’t have to paste on that fake smile and try to not snap at my kids.