I go back to December, turn around and make it all right
I go back to December all the time
~Taylor Swift
Ah, December.
December was "the scene of the crime," as they say.
Since the holidays were just wrapping up, the halls were still decked when my
world went sideways. The holiday décor stays up until after the New Year, traditionally. By traditionally, of course, I mean that I dread taking it down and put it off as long as socially acceptable.
I
don’t know if my husband felt he was doing me a service, if he felt that the cheerful
décor was too harsh of a backdrop for our misery, or if he just needed something
to do, but he took down the decorations by himself that year.
I had some other things on my mind.
My husband and holiday decorations are like oil and water; throw them together as much as you want, but they’ll never mix well.
Consequently, I was hit with a giant What the fuck happened here? when I opened up the holiday boxes this past season.
It was a bona fide clusterfuck of tangled, jumbled, wadded up "holiday fun."
Consequently, I was hit with a giant What the fuck happened here? when I opened up the holiday boxes this past season.
It was a bona fide clusterfuck of tangled, jumbled, wadded up "holiday fun."
Then, it punched me in the gut; he did this.
He must’ve taken down Christmas last year. I have no recollection of it happening, but
he must’ve, because here it is. And he
fucked this up just like he fucked everything else up.
Suddenly, there I was again…
Painful emotions had gotten boxed up with the Christmas ornaments, mingling with Santas and snowmen and broken ornaments. They were laying in wait for me there in those boxes.
I had to unpack them and exorcise them all over again.
As we hung lights on the house, I started to say something about the disarray. Then, I bit back my comment.
He looked at me with abject regret; he knew the gist of what I had meant to say.
"I can hardly look at this stuff without reliving last year," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "It's making me very angry with you. There are layers of anger. I'm getting mad at you all over again. Mad that the ornaments are stuffed and broken, mad about why they're like this..."
"I know," he said. He embraced me, and I stood in his arms by the forgotten ladder.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know."
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
As we move on with our life, these moments come and go, rippling out in tiny waves through the current of our new normal. They hurt, but I've learned to let them come.
After all, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, right?
I had to unpack them and exorcise them all over again.
As we hung lights on the house, I started to say something about the disarray. Then, I bit back my comment.
He looked at me with abject regret; he knew the gist of what I had meant to say.
"I can hardly look at this stuff without reliving last year," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "It's making me very angry with you. There are layers of anger. I'm getting mad at you all over again. Mad that the ornaments are stuffed and broken, mad about why they're like this..."
"I know," he said. He embraced me, and I stood in his arms by the forgotten ladder.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know."
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
As we move on with our life, these moments come and go, rippling out in tiny waves through the current of our new normal. They hurt, but I've learned to let them come.
After all, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, right?
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