Christmas Eve

I just got back from my mom's house; we did Christmas tonight instead of tomorrow because she has to work.

And it was nice. We ate dinner; Mom and I poured ourselves some wine; and we did the traditional present-opening in a circle. I think my fam liked the gifts I got for them, and they definitely hooked me up with some stuff I didn't know I needed until I had it.

But. It seemed strange ... stranger than it was last year, maybe, even. My dad wasn't there keeping track of whose turn it was and snapping pictures (from which I hid incessantly ... I mean, honestly, who takes a picture on Christmas morning when you've all just rolled out of bed? Well, lots of people, probably. I guess I don't have much of a point, but I am notorious in my family for hating/refusing to have my picture taken.).

I never really noticed before that it was different on the holidays after a loved one dies. To me it seemed like any other day to begin with -- I miss him every day; I think about him every day. This was something more. Maybe it takes longer for your brain (or your emotions) to register that someone's not around during a time of year when people really value and cherish the connections between them.

There's a wonderful image in The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay; awesome read if you ever get the chance, way better than the movie) where the author talks about loneliness birds flying into his chest -- his heart -- and laying stone eggs. Kathy and I would talk about the physical effects of depression. When people use phrases like "it's weighing me down," or "it broke my heart," those words make perfect sense to me. I think you feel it to some extent when you break up with a boyfriend or girlfriend or get in an argument with someone or are disappointed in yourself. I don't think most people realize how severe those feelings can seem when something really bad (damaging, traumatic, life-altering, unfixable) happens. It's crippling.

I'm not that sad. I'm functioning still. But there is definitely a stone egg or two incubating (or, more probably, failing to incubate ... that would make more sense) in my chest.

I'll be okay. It was just sad.