A Christmas Yet to Come

Such a slap in the face, walking into any shop. Instead of “jingle all the way,” all I can think is “single all the way.” Over seven years of it... and every year, a quiet promise that the next one will be different. But this year, I have a lot more on my mind, thanks to the covert narcissist. I’m still wading through the emotional sewage, dealing with PTSD. My very own ghost of Christmas Past. Maybe I’ll serve onion soup on Christmas Day—for myself.

Back to my shop observation. It’s not even Halloween, yet the sinister Christmas decorations are already on the shelves, reminding me of my sad existence. Santa Clauses glare at me with their piercing eyes, tugging at my heartstrings to play a grotesque lullaby. At least I’ve got an extra heartstring, as I found out at my latest checkup. I suppose that makes me special.

No, I don’t want to "celebrate" with friends and family. Why would I? Watching their charade only makes me feel more estranged. No sense of belonging, just the familiar ache I’ve grown used to. I’ll take my Costa coffee from the petrol station on Christmas Day and feel a bit sorry for the person stuck working. For a moment, I amuse myself with the thought that someone else is worse off. But when I ask the mediocre-looking guy behind the counter, “Do you have to work all day?” his thick accent answers back, “No, I finish in an hour, then I have dinner with my family and…” I stop listening. I don’t care about his jolly plans.

It’s not even November yet. Anything can happen, right? I could be dead by Christmas. I should be living my happily ever after with the covert narcissist. “If I say NO fucking candles, then NO fucking candles in the house!” Duly noted. I have three lit right now.