The Saddest Christmas Story Ever

I've never been a huge fan of Christmas decorations. Well, I'll rephrase that--I've never been a fan of putting up Christmas decorations. I like other peoples' hard work and I like taking that drive to see all the pretty lights, but I've never actually put any effort into my own living space, aside from the plug-in fiber-optic mini-tree I bought last year. I don't think I could get away with calling that "effort".

This year, I find myself in a different sort of state. Last year, I was more or less financially secure, vaguely unhappy with myself and most things in my life. I shared this space with someone as lost as I was. We clung to each other to validate some stray path we'd both taken. It sounds kind of sad, and it is, but that kind of relationship is part of the human condition--experiencing that is necessary on the way to understanding the human soul. Or, my soul, anyway.

This year, I've nothing to cling to. My finances, while strict and disciplined, don't allow for much excess. It's a double-edged sword: while it can mortally wound me, it also cuts out all the excess that eventually makes me "sad without cause". Not having the money to buy the bag of cookies kinda makes the choice for you, you know?

This year, my life feels a bit like my room when I was a kid. I'd create modifications out of what I had on hand (example: I once made a speaker shelf out of an old plastic pencil case, hemp twine and duct tape), tied together with string and tiny bits of prayers I remember from childhood. Everything is so fragile. If I drop the ball, it all breaks to pieces, and this time I won't be able to glue them back together.

So I got a Christmas tree.

I didn't pay for it; it was the old fake tree my parents have been putting together for 14 years now. And even though it isn't a money tree, and it does not grow peace-of-mind pinecones, it has somehow glued the living room together.

I didn't have any ornaments or tinsel, or shiny breakable baubles to adorn it with, so of course I made some. Old CDs tied to the branches with hemp twine, a handmade dream catcher from JH, strips of mismatched fabric as bows. A Chinese takeout box with a light bulb inside as the topper. It really does look like my tree.

And I've been thinking a lot about it. Not just the tree, but the atmosphere of a widely-celebrated holiday. I'm not exactly a Christian; I'm not exactly a believer in anything outside of positivity. So why would a Christmas tree smooth over the rough spots? Bridge the gaps over abyssal sadnesses? It's not even a real tree.

I guess it could be as simple as, this is what's always happened around this time of year. There's always been a tree. Maybe it's just familiarity, like the ghost of something that once made me so excited I couldn't sleep.

I hear we spend our whole lives trying to get back to our care-free youth. Maybe, in a sense, the more care-free your youth is, the more lost you are when you grow up, because it doesn't exist outside of that. To get it back, you have to build it; shove over everything else in the real world and make room for it. And still, no matter how much hemp twine or scrap fabric I tie together, I'm never going to get it back, not really. It will always be the ghost of it--a smell, a warmth, but less than it was. A residual. Until I spawn my crotchfruit, of course; then I can re-create it for them, and weep a little inside when I see how happy they are. And I'll think, I remember that. I remember that.

The Christmas tree helps, though.