TheBanyanTree: Holiday Depression

[Sharon Mack]

I also have trouble with depression.  I am bi-polar with histrionic
personality disorder and all the ugly symptoms that can go with that.  I
used to have terrible bouts of depression on the holidays.  It began before
Thanksgiving and didn't end till well after my birthday which is January
7th.  I decided it had to end!

The easiest thing was to start with my birthday.  For years growing up I
always found myself waiting for the big birthday surprise--a party, a
special present, a special activity from a special person.  It NEVER
materialized.  Not even from husbands or boyfriends.  In fact, most folks
forgot.  One, because they gave me my present mixed with my Christmas gift
(one gift to suffice for both occasions) or two smaller gifts.  On top of
it, it seemed a Murphy's Law day--anything that could go bad--did!  Or at
least that's how I saw it.

I decided about 20 years ago (I was 40 at the time) that I must stop the
nonsense and I decided that I would treat January 7th like a normal day and
not even think about my birthday.  I was tired of the sadness it brought and
it had grown to be a big stigma in my life (is that the right word?).

Funny thing is, when I stopped being an idiot with expectations, I found I
could appreciate the little things that came on my special day.  Some were
shared, others were not.  A beautiful sunset while walking the dogs.  A cold
clear night of stars and a beautiful moon.  The river glinting in the
moonlight.  

It was lovely when someone remembered and I began to notice a lot of people
actually did.  People I probably didn't notice before.  I could appreciate
the small things, like a lunch in the cafeteria at work or a single flower
or a book (sometimes used but it didn't matter--they'd thought about me on
this day).  It was amazing--and all of them come as little surprises all day
long.  Some had nothing to do with my birthday but were just good things
that happened.

The next holiday I got rid of was New Year's Eve.  I think I was about 45
then. Now it has become a day I spend writing and working on my novels and
stories. This always makes me feel good and quiet in my soul.  I celebrate
this in the evening with my doggies with a cheese platter (they can have
cheese), a seafood appetizer, steak (they get a bit of steak), baked potato,
veggie and champagne (not too expensive).  Since it is just for us, it is
not large quantities and, therefore, fits my budget.  We don't watch the
silliness on TV as that is depressing.  We listen to classical music and not
Christmas stuff either.  At 10PM or so, I hear from my friends and relatives
because they know that I will soon be in bed.  It's a good time for them as
most are just beginning their night of celebration so it does not intrude on
their schedules.

The last vestige was Thanksgiving and Christmas. It took me a while on this
one.  Last year at 60 was the last year.  I made a big decision.  I refused
to put up a tree.  This is the story I wrote about it:

MY WAY

I never had the courage before.  I'd always said I didn't want a tree, that
I hated putting one up.  Too much trouble, too much mess, too much time
wasted.  Finally, when the last kid left I found an old fake tree in the
shed.  I'd just bought the house and was cleaning it out from the previous
owners.  I was mad at myself and grumbling about what an ass I felt like,
buying a home for the first time at fifty-eight.  I must have been out of my
mind, I thought.

But getting back to that tree,.  It stood about three feet tall and had
apples adorning its bent wire branches.  Fake apples, fake tree.  Oh, swell!
I brought it in and cleaned off the fake clay pot it was set in and put it
in the living room.  I just stood and stared at it.  It looked like I felt.
Old, bent, broken, ugly.  Why bother, I thought to myself.  Just because
everyone else is doing trees, must you?  Of course, I answered myself.
Isn't it your tradition to do what society and your closest friends and
family bid the 'right' thing to do...or just the 'thing' to do?
I moved the coffee table to the window, covered it with an old white sheet
and put the tree on it.  I wrapped another around the fake clay pot and
proceeded to straighten its branches and remove the fake apples.  I let it
sit that way for several days.  Empty, dark--devoid of any celebration.  

On the fifth day I went to the attic and lugged down two large Rubbermaid
containers.  There were at least four more, but I figured whatever was in
the two I could handle, would have to do.  I was too tired for any more and
I didn't really care that much.  Luckily, there was a string of lights and
it only took one string to cover that tree.  There were some old Christmas
toys I set on the table; a Mickey Mouse with a pull string to make him talk,
a wire with a magnetized wheel that traveled back and forth as you tipped
the rod and a stuffed Christmas bear.  There were a couple of my
nutcrackers.  Somewhere I had an entire collection, but these two would have
to do.  Four plain blue bulbs, a couple of angels, a bell, and my old manger
scene.  What do they call it?  A crèche? 

That was it.  Done!  No more!  I felt exhasted, and trust me, no one that
visited commented on my tree.  I didn't wonder why.

**********************************

My sixtieth year found me in much the same mood and by now I was already
facing foreclosure on the house.  It didn't take long for me to realize I'd
taken on too much.  I'd gotten caught in the 'housing boom.'  Now it was
over.

This year my youngest son came home for a visit.  At twenty-five he still
wanted a tree.  I told him it was wrapped in black plastic and stored with
the two tubs of decorations in the basement.  I had been too tired after
that first year to climb the stairs.  It had seemed easier to go down.  If
he wanted to bring them up that was fine with me.  We could put them up
after my appointment at the bank.  They'd said they wanted to help me,
perhaps avoid foreclosure.

When I came home that afternoon, the three items were in the corner of the
kitchen waiting.  My son stood proudly next to them, smiling, wanting to
know if I was ready to decorate.  One look at my face told him everything
and he knew decorating was out.  His smile vanished.  I told him about the
bank, the house, the foreclosure.  The bank couldn't help.  We looked at
each other for a moment in silence, then together we glanced at the pile of
things he'd brought from the basement and back again at each other.

"I'll take 'em back downstairs, Ma.  Okay?"

I nodded and in less than two minutes they were out of my sight.

****************************

On the Saturday before Christmas, I was in the basement doing laundry as
usual when I caught sight of the top tub my son had brought down a few days
before.  I went to it and popped the lid.  There sat the manger, the crèche.
I pulled it out letting the smaller items fall to the bottom of the tub, set
it on top of the laundry basket and brought it upstairs.  It seemed a blind
act.  One with no thought or reason.  I just wanted it upstairs.

And now it sits atop my smallest shelf in front of the living room window.
Quiet, unlit, undecorated except with the scene of the shepherds and the
animals and the parents and the tiny babe that started this hullabaloo.  I
glance at it often.  I'm glad its there, and I'm glad I finally had reason
to stop the foolishness of the tree.  It suits me.

# # #

That's my story--and this year??  I did the same.  On Thanksgiving Day I
brought out the crèche, put up my door wreath and I am set.  The moment I
did that someone gave me a 22 lb. turkey, 2 cans of cranberry sauce, a bag
of sweet potatoes and a box of candy.  How did they know my tenant had moved
out and I was unable to replace him rendering me low on cash and food and I
wouldn't be able afford Christmas dinner? 

Miracles are made of the small stuff and I am glad that for now, I am of the
presence of mind to appreciate them.  I pray it continues.