Ghosts of Christmas

Dear Hearts,

Depression…it is a weight that just presses on—like the way it must be on a planet that has double or triple the gravitational pull…every ordinary task is so monumental.

That’s why people kill themselves—because they are just so fucking tired of trying to hang on.

I don’t know about Lucifer, the Devil, Satan and all that. I recognize that is God is the ultimate Good, then there has to be an ultimate Evil. I don’t think I believe in Hell. Or how did one Catholic Priest put it: I have to believe in a Hell, but I don’t have to believe that anyone is there.

I don’t know what happened to the killer who drove into all those people in Germany. I don’t know where he is. I don’t really give a fuck.

Goodman Brown by Nathanial Hawthorne is a great example of Evil working through Man.

Let me put this out there: things could be so much worse for me. I know--THANK YOU GOD--but things could be better too.  I recognize that.

If Satan exists, He exists in Depression and Mental Illness. Depression takes away your hope, energy, enjoyment, confidence. Depression makes you hate yourself. HATE. Depression makes you so fucking mean and cruel to yourself.

Hope.

Hope that things will be different…Depression kills hope, “a thing with feathers.” Depression takes that delicate bird and stomps on it with a steel-toed Doc Martin.

I rush through each thing until I can get to what I want to do. It would be so much easier to just lie down and not get up.

Depression takes all the Good in your life—even your relationship with God—and shoots bird-shot at it. Bird-shot won’t necessarily kill you, but it will hurt like a motherfucker. Yes, that’s accurate. And no, I don’t think Dick Cheney is the Devil. I like Dick. He’s a good guy. The way he schooled Edwards in the debate…anyway…I digress.

The secret service guy shouldn’t have gotten in front of Dick’s gun. Stupid.

That is what depression does to you and every aspect of your life—shoots you in the face with bird-shot. Little holes and wounds everywhere and they will not heal. Or, if they do heal—Depression shoots you again. Prometheus. Every day Depression Dick Cheney’s your face.

I promised I wasn’t gonna be all doom and gloom in this post. I totally underestimated how hard this Christmas would be.

Favorite Christmas Memories:

Mom makes rice pudding Christmas Eve and puts and almond in it. Whoever gets the almond, gets a Hallmark ornament. I hate rice pudding. But I have an 85% track record for getting the almond. I dig around in there before anyone else can.

Dad builds a fire and we sit in the living room. He smokes his pipe we spend time together.

When I was little, taking a walk on our snowy country road looking for gnomes--Dad always pointed them out. Dad would take his big flashlight and the now would glitter in its beam.

The tree is so sparkly and beautiful—filled with an angel ornament that belonged to my Pop and a Tigger ornament that jumps up and down. It is a big tree of bling. I love bling.

Dad and I would set up the 50-year-old plastic village under the tree. When I was a kid I would play with the rubber people. The church was always the center of town. The ice-cream parlor, even though it was falling apart, was on the edge of town.

Babes in Toyland playing Christmas day. My mom asking how many times we can possibly watch that stupid thing. I love that movie. Dad always had to watch the original Scrooge too.

Eating cookies in the morning on Christmas Day. And afternoon. And night.

Setting up all my presents and spending time with each one—this was when I lived at home—so through college maybe.

Sitting on the couch with a cat and/or dog or two, or three…Mom, Dad, and maybe Gaia in the room--just feeling this fullness inside. This contentment. Warmth. Love. Serenity. Peace.

Being lifted up from the opening-gifts-let-down, by the stocking stuffers! Tissues. Mom always gave us chap stick, little tissue packets, and socks.

Knowing that Dad would get me every Hallmark Barbie ornament every made!

Baking Spritz Christmas cookies with mom.

Dad reading the Christmas story from the Bible.

Going to the movies Christmas Eve Day.

Smoking in the living room.

That warm feeling of the fire and the covenant that all was the way it ought to be.

I can remember that feeling—but today the fire is stone cold. Just ashes. The tree lights are out. The tree is dead and the ornaments smashed. The presents stolen. The batteries in the flashlight dead. The cookies and egg nog are rotten. The TV is cracked. The living room is empty. The lights are off. Everything is dark and still.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.