Christmas was barely survived this year. It was vaguely experienced. It was ruefully noticed. Christmas was turned inside out. I have never felt farther removed from my family. My most heartfelt connections were with people I barely know, but we are all members of the Worst Club Ever. We are mothers of Angels. Our children’s lives did not play out in a natural way. Now what is natural feels like a perversion of what should be.
There were more tears than tinsel this time. There were no handcut snowflakes or colored popped corn to string this year. I’ll let the grief keep this one, this one year’s Christmas.
Yesterday, Nick told me, “I understand the adjustment this year, but please don’t let it stop you from celebrating the holidays like you used to. You were the biggest trumpet for every season. I don’t want the kids, or anyone else, to miss out on your spirit.”
How could I not take the advice of my oldest friend?
I am very independant. I do not appreciate anything having control over me. Therefore this grief cannot have me.
“This is the moment. This is exactly what she was born to be;
and this is what she does, and this is what she is.”
Next time, Ambrose will be celebrating with us again. We will have a toast to him. We will donate a toy in his name. We will eat big. We will laugh, and sing, and cut out decorations again.
Last year was claimed by grief. I was in a state of mortal depression before the tragedy of Ambrose’s unnatural death. I haven’t been right since I lost my Cattail house, was homeless, moved into a worse situation, my dog died… I had a nice vacation. I caught up on some bills, did some cool community outreach stuff in Detroit, took in an orphan, then BAM!
I’m going to own 2017.
I’m beginning a new career.
I’m going to live without a diagnosis.
I’m going to be everything that Ambrose ever wanted for me.
I will live in peace with myself and the Universe and God.
I will live up to my, POTENTIAL…
Happy New Year.