It's the Hap-Happiest Season of All

Here we go, the week that begins a month of parties. Actually this past week was, although I skipped it. Imagine that! Me! Skipping a party. Never. The three parties that I am going to (one of which is mine) aren’t too high stress. I know who I will see and who I won’t. That takes the anxiety level down. Somewhat. I still have to try to be normal and reminiscent of who I used to be. Which, probably, is good for me. The more I do it, the easier it will be to continue. It’s interesting. The times I do ‘fake it,’ I feel pretty good for a bit after, kinda like, ‘wow, I’m almost me again.’ However, the aftermath is always rather tough. When the fake smile fades, when the forced small talk disappears and reality is left.
I was talking to my best friend yesterday. We went Christmas shopping. Girls’ day out, you know. It was very nice and very relaxing. Somewhat bittersweet, but still good. We started talking about why we don’t get together more now that he is only working one job again, and I had to admit how hard it is to be around people that I know so well and that I love. That it takes a lot of effort to keep up the normal conversation flow and not turn to the theme that is so prevalent—believe it or not, I really give considerable exertion to steer clear of that topic. I don’t want to drive people crazy and I am sick to death of talking about it—since nothing changes. He mentioned that he really thought that I will be back to normal soon. I told him I really didn’t think so. It’s not that I am just sad or miss him. Even though that is true. At this point though, it’s not all about him. Part of me broke, cracked, shattered, fell off of me. I don’t think it’s something that can ‘heal.’ Maybe scab over. Even if he returned (yeah, right), I still wouldn’t be who I was. My friend mentioned that he thought I just needed someone to come along and show me that it really is possible, that there really is someone I could give my trust to for good. (There wasn’t one bit of trust that I didn’t give, there wasn’t anything I held back—I gave every ounce of trust, faith, everything that I had.) To me, and I said this, that idea is repugnant. For one, I don’t believe that can happen or will happen. For another, let’s say for argument’s sake that it’s true. That’s disgusting. What does that say about me? That I couldn’t get back to ‘normal’ on my own? That I simply had to just have some man to make me whole and enable me to function yet again? Yuck, Donna Reed, yuck.
Happy Monday morning!