I tried. I tried really fucking hard. To ignore the thoughts in my head. To make an effort. To face the world. To get myself into the Christmas mood and at least have one day where I didn't just want to stay with the covers over my head the entire time. I should have quit whilst I was behind...
After enduring the morning round of the ever-fun game 'pick on the depressive's physical appearance and fashion choice for the day, I occupied myself by making the obligatory mulled wine. After which we were supposed to go to the market up the road from me, which was laying on a Christmas Eve daytime special. Agreed that we were supposed to be leaving at 2, of course we didn't walk out the door until 3.30, by which time all the stalls were in the process of deconstructing the metal frames and driving off home for the day. Fail strike two.
I tried my best not to be too down about it. I have no doubt it was blindingly obvious I was disappointed and frustrated, but I at least managed to keep my voice neutral, rather than despondant. I'd been banking on wandering round marketyness to get me feeling vaguely in the festive spirit, but that option clearly went out the window.
In fairness, 15 minutes of our late departure was due to me trying to make an effort in my appearance; I showered, shaved, scrubbed, and put on jeans, a vest, tshirt and a shirt instead of the black joggers and hoodie option that had been my staple for 2.5 days. Obviously in light of the fact that going out was a pointless exercise anyway, trying to make an effort to look somewhat decent was well beyond the universe's expectations of me for the day.
One of the Christmas rituals in my family is that we have turkey sandwiches at midnight, and open the presents then. It comes from when I was young and my dad used to work really long hours all the time, so there I was at 10.30 at night, with turkey in the oven, and something happened. Something small, but I broke, I fell apart, and all I wanted to do was go back to ignoring the world, even the relatively small world of Chris and his friend who's staying with us. I realized that all these Christmas rituals only mattered to me, that Chris and his friend would carry on and have their Christmas just fine whatever happened, so there was no need to fight so hard to make sure there were turkey sandwiches, or to think about the fact that I haven't watched The Muppet's Christmas Carol or It's A Wonderful Life this year. Chris probably thought he was being helpful when he agreed that it didn't matter. It doesn't. But it did. A hell of a lot. And no-one even noticed that I was trying, or why I wanted to do these things.
I get that my being majorly depressed is trying on Chris. He doesn't know how to deal with me at the best of times, and he can't relate to the place my head finds itself in, so it's hard to judge what to say or do, or how to react, when to force an issue and when not to. And I know he's doing as best he can. And I know it's unfair to sit here, and spout out a bullet point list of failings, because that's not accurate, and it only tells half the story. I'm the cause of these problems in the first place, and I know that. But sometimes that boy can be so goddamned obtuse. Like when he wonders at me why I seem to be so much worse than usual this year, if it's just that I put on a face when I spend Christmas with his family, or mine, because I've never been this bad before. Why at the moment, nothing good seems to make me smile, and everything bad is so severe and dramatic. How when all the frustrations of having to deal with a depressive boyfriend, completely understandably, get to him, he decides that the most appropriate person to vent angrily about it to is said depressive. How all he wants to do, is just tell me to cheer the fuck up, and we both know it.
...So much for a relaxing 5 days off work before my 6 weeks non-stop marathon. I escape to Joel's tomorrow for the day, so maybe that will calm me down.
Oh yeah, merry fucking Christmas. I bet this is exactly the present the bf wanted.