Christmas came and went. It was good, I promise. Ada was thrilled. I cooked Christmas dinner and it went wonderfully. Everything was good. And I should feel good, too, right? I feel differently though. I feel both empty and too full.
Holidays are superficially full. I am full of all the stuff–presents, food, merriment. But underneath, I just don’t understand what it means. I get why we have holidays. It is practical. We can schedule time off work, make travel plans. But it feels like an obligation. All this stuff I got my daughter thinking it would bring me joy, when she opened it, is just stuff. The food is gone. The day is gone.
And I’m left feeling empty and dissatisfied. The moment–the good feeling that I anticipate–came without leaving an impression. I felt more moved by the music I listened to while cooking. (Crying while cutting onions only to find it is the song and not the onions.)
I feel like I can’t talk about it. First because it’s so vague. It’s just a tightness in my chest and a mild sadness. A longing for something deeper. Second, there is this desire to be happy especially at the holidays unless you have good reason. I don’t I guess. So I feel lousy about it. I’m letting people down. It’s tiring. It makes it worse. It’s why I’m writing I guess. Hoping it will go away if I voice it.
And it’s worse today. It’s back to the grind already like yesterday meant nothing. And it did. It meant nothing in itself. In a larger context it means something–another year–but there’s little magic in the passage of time.
Maybe it’s the winter–the cold and dark. Maybe I’m lonely. Maybe I’m homesick.
Christmas is over now though. So as it passes away maybe this feeling will ease up. Staying vigilant just in case.