Serena Says Stuff

On the eve of Christmas the world was quiet. No snow, which for Wisconsin was not unexpected, most Christmases come with blistering cold and not a winter wonderland. My mothers house wasn’t bustling with excitement, but this is the day we have always opened our presents. Melancholy filled the room, as this was a particularly hard day for me. I’m not the biggest fan of being center of attention, whether it’s grief that shines its spotlight on me or another pivotal talking point that I rather keep under the rug, I rather not be what people want to talk about. As I sit in a chair in my mothers living room I realize the choice to be the center of peoples thoughts is not mine to make. That whether I like it or not, people are thinking of me today. While I want my siblings to be excited over their gifts I know in the back of my mind they don’t want to exude any extra happiness around me. I wouldn’t mind if they did, I want them to be happy on Christmas, they’re young. Yet I still want to tell myself I don’t want it this way, that I don’t want to see them excited because I long and yearn for that feeling again. Underneath all this wrapping paper what would I hope to see? A sense of direction? The feeling of hope? A phone call from my father? Yet all of these can not be wrapped or given, but I still put it on my list. The past 5 months have made me painfully understand the feeling of wanting, the feeling of wishful thinking and the feeling of unauthorized and undignified acceptance for this new life. As Christmas was approaching I knew another hard reflection in the mirror of life was looking back at me. I’ll be damned to try to look in the metaphorical mirror and wish for a different reflection. Yet this reflection has shown me the hard to swallow, but rather honest truth, that I can’t admit that I fully hate. But Christmas still hurts. Christmas is too quiet, too still, too melancholy for the day it is supposed to be. The angels still sing their songs, we still praise a man who I’m still on the fence about and instead of comparing gifts with my siblings, I sit in silence, look at my gifts and think to myself. “I love all of this, but this is not what I really want.” The truth is I’ll never get what I really want, because I don’t want shoes, or clothes or countless books I’ll never read. I want his voice to be on the other side of the phone. I want to see his car pull in the driveway. To ride in the passenger seat and look over and see that all too familiar and overtly comforting face. Yes I still have family, Yes I can still find happiness in other things, Yes I am grateful. But Yes I am sad. I am sad that I have to reconcile with my brain, to force itself to go to sleep to prevent itself into doubting its abilities on whether we can survive this. I am tired of trying to find the silver linings that are disguised as needles in a haystack. But amidst my tiredness, my angst and my sadness, I am happy. Happy that I got to see my siblings smile, happy that I got to give my mom the gift she really wanted, happy to be with my family as they too are still apart of my life. I rather not let my emotions cultivate on Christmas. To not let them build up against the dam wall and then release the raging waters onto unsuspecting citizens, but when the wall breaks who are we to stop it? The wall broke at a Christmas party. Everyone with their spouses, accompanied by their children. Those children have dads, I do, but not physically anymore. “Dad can you open this present for me?” “Dad look what I got!” “Dad they’re not sharing.” Dad Dad Dad. Why is that the only word I’m able to hear? “Dad, just one more holiday please?” Is the only question I wish to ask. But with that being said I don’t resent kids with fathers, I too was once a kid with a loving father. I don’t resent the sad eyes that follow me around the whole night, scared to bring him up, scared to prematurely break the dam wall. I don’t resent the brave souls that do bring him up, that ask me how I am. I just say “it’s hard”, because that’s a truth that I could never lie about. The night ever so draining, ever so mournful, has yet to be the worst night ever. So for that I am grateful. Like many nights, and many occasions, I sit in bed, contemplate writing, but never do. Tonight I sit here on Christmas night and write. It feels good to speak words of truth, words of sadness and profound pain into voids most will not find and I am ok with that. I ended tonight with a phone call to my boyfriend Jacob, who I have come to love dearly, who will get his own blog post someday soon. We talked about our days, and I admire his love for his family. His genuine happiness to be there with them and I am grateful for him and his love for me. So tonight I didn’t get to hear that voice on the other side of the phone, but I got to talk to a new one, who I believe will come to love me the same. Who makes Christmas not so bad, not so quiet and not so melancholy. Today wasn’t bad, today wasn’t great. Today was today. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Yesterday was yesterday. I’m still here, with people I love, missing and loving people above.