The Season

I have never been a fan of the holiday season.  I love the holidays individually, but instead of being filled with cheer and joy in equal measure around me, I am filled with a deep consistence question of my value; a sense that at any moment everything will be discovered to be unearned.  A person becomes convinced that they have a pathetic unique ineptitude for life.  There is a screaming hyper awareness of flaws and errors.

I’m sorry I’m not taller

I’m sorry I’m not kinder

I’m sorry I’m secretly needy

I’m sorry I want to do it all

I’m sorry I don’t know how to share

I’m sorry that I don’t know how to slow down

When the gears shift it is never subtle, but is more akin to slamming on the breaks.  The opposite measure is less distracting because its immediate effects are the endorphins of shopping, great mood, and all around good-time making. Great stuff that gets outwardly rewarded by friends and coworkers, which mask the negative effects of spending sprees, inability to concentrate, or inflated self-esteem.

This does not come around once a year from November through January, but is a year-round cycle that only becomes heightened by The Season.  The Holiday Season itself comprises these two extremes on a national level.  There are those that shout proudly that they are grinches, and there are those that indulge in The Season beginning October 28.  Frenzied energy produced by the baking, obligatory parties, and shopping, fuels the self-destructive thinking and hopelessness.  I stay home, with hot chocolate and marshmallows, with Netflix, and quietly wait until after February.

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