Dickensian Opportunities

The culture in general privileges people who have family connections and obligations, who have children, who are living the conventional life as seen from the outside in. This is greatly heightened around "the holidays," when everyone's biologically determined network of obligation is in one's face, and when people post things to social media like "Don't forget that this can be a challenging time for those who are alone. Keep those lonely alone loner hermit alone people in your smug superior socially networked prayers on this festive day when it is the worst thing of all to be alone."

I was paralyzed by grief, loneliness, anger at myself and disconsolate memories yesterday, to the degree that I just resigned myself to the day, climbed back into bed at about noon, and slept for hours, in between waking up teary-eyed and full of memories or idly checking my phone and being disheartened and made even more lonely by social media. But I excavated my sad ass finally in a state of mild panic that I would never emerge at all and started cooking, in spite of not being hungry, and sometimes the simple tasks of prepping food lift me up. 

Roasted roots, before and after. Very grounding. 

     At the same time, the One True LOMFLF texted me some funnies, and the laughs, as dark as some of them were, offered a welcome lightening of my mood. (Why is the general theme of choking coming up so much in both jokes and seriousness, regarding sex, lately? Is choking a millenial thing, like ass? One of the memes was a joke about "how to wear turtlenecks and deal with the constant turn on of the sensation of light choking." The idea of me, a man, choking her, a woman, during sex is okay by me if she, a woman, consented and would teach me exactly how and how much pressure and when and so on-- but any of these themes that echo degradation, of violence, of male domination of women also trigger my sensitivities around violence against women, especially sexual violence. The recent results of a quiz at bdsm test dot org confirm that I am 86% vanilla. I was surprised it was not a little higher. It's weird too how the thought of the One True LOMFLF having nsa kinky sex with a guy makes me jealous, in spite of the fact or because of the fact that I am incapable of nsa sex largely (in spite of wishing I were capable of it, of that blithe attitude, 'it's just sex, it's just to get "my needs met," it doesn't mean anything,'-- I've tried and no, it just does not work like that for me) and have no desire to be kinky really unless it would be hotly demanded, but I digress, (parenthetically)). 

As the evening unfolded, I began to get more comfortable with being solitary. I took myself on a walk in the chilly dark to look at Christmas lights, with my one good eye. I built a fire, I made hot chocolate. I had enjoyed my dinner of a roasted chicken, canned cranberry sauce, stuffing, and roasted roots, cherry pie and ice cream. I sat outside by the consoling fire and reflected on holidays past. 

how it feels to lie with one's true love, I thought to myself, when I took this picture. Man, I am a goner. 

For years, I could not make it through Christmas without heavy drinking. I've done some inventory around that and a large part of it stemmed from all the lies I was living every year. I recall the Christmas after I got married the first time, for example, and I had tried incredibly hard to be normal and happy-- I bought a train set for the 8 year old daughter of my wife, I bought a shit ton of presents, I bought the 8 year old daughter a spiny hedgehog which she had desperately wanted. It was Christmas Eve and I went grocery shopping and sort of without thinking about it I bought 5 six packs of various expensive beers. I spent the bulk of that night and the holiday week shitfaced. Sad and realizing that I was merely acting, and that all the gifting and decorating and all of it was no bulwark against the core of true despair that was inside me. This is the way alcoholism worked for me- it always played out this way. 

I was thinking about how excited I used to get around Christmas when I was a boy. I believed the myths and tales of Christianity for a long time, and even had a rebirth of Christian belief in my late teens and early 20s, and recalled how Christmas had a way of summoning a sense of pagan mystery in the midst of my religious sentiment. Dark snowy nights in Pennsylvania sledding down the hill two streets over from our house. The wrapped packages under the tree. The more cheery mood of my family, generally. I remembered one year when I was four and had diligently disassembled the locomotive from our train set, but panicked and was grief stricken when I couldn't reassemble it, and although furious at first, my father softened, and went out on a freezing Christmas Eve and managed to find a locomotive for sale somewhere, and saved the Christmas train. 

Many memories tumbling. But an overarching theme from my adult years was the position of pushing my loneliness, despair, constant feeling of misfit, honest sadness and grief to the background and trying in whatever way to celebrate, to forget about all of the loss, to be cheerful, social and to step completely into my roles. And how searingly painful that dance always was, and how disappointed I always was, and how much alcohol it started to take to make it even possible at all. 

After I got sober, I did not celebrate the holidays in any outward way for years. I got drawn into some celebrations of others, but I always had to keep my distance. The poetess and I went to Mexico every year and camped in the middle of nowhere or stayed in San Ignacio and let others celebrate Noche Buena. It served me best to forego all of it and treat the holidays as just another series of days. It wasn't until A and her son that I started to get back into it, and then I ended up being pulled all the way back in. It was great fun shopping for him. My little boy got very enthused about the toy section at Target. 

A Super Wubble helium filled balloon! Honestly, most of the things I bought for A's son were just as much for me

But instead of offering a sympathetic nod toward those who are "alone during the holidays," I feel more inclined today to offer "thoughts and prayers" for those who are *not* alone, but who are forced to perform. The roles we wear somewhat lightly most of the year- son, father, stepfather, whatever- that the holidays weld to our skin inescapably, so that we get pushed into identifying with our roles and lose ourselves. The performance of all is well. When all is definitely not well. The performance of giving and receiving, when it all skates over a dark ice pond of old resentment and disappointment. May all those who must perform, must show up, must lie and smile, must be diminished by an incomprehensible and unconscious ancient family history, may all those who are trying to make it right, trying to please their children, trying to make memories that will last a lifetime, trying to get to the requisite feeling of holiday cheer and love, may they all be well. 

My hermit's holiday is a simple and spacious relief by comparison. Yes, the shades of Christmas past are everywhere. Yes, I meet loneliness head on and feel defeated by the end of the affair combined with my unrelenting ardent affection, and by my bum eye and by my dissertation and by the total uncertainty of my future and the general bloody mess of heartbreak. But I am reminded that some of the saddest, most inescapably lonely times in my life, I was with other people. It's a great opportunity to get real about that. 

And the entire cherry pie is mine.