2020: The Shit-Show That Was

It's fair to say that 2020 was a rough year for most of the people I know. "Rough" is vague enough to describe the continuum of minor impacts of the COVID-19 virus to I know people that died, lost jobs, struggled really hard this year. I am in the latter.

I've gone through my soon to be outdated calendar and can list more crappy events in every month than I can "Oh yay!" happenings. I realize I need to check my gratitude because I'm not taking into account I've had a roof over my head and food in my kitchen all year. I can't manage how to make those things important enough to overcome the monthly feeding of crap this year. My mind is not in that place of gratitude right now, and hasn't been for several months. My apologies to those of you reading this and thinking, "Just shut up about the crap and focus on the gratitude." It's a cognitive thing. I'm a therapist, getting clients to recognize and accept gratitude has been my the bread and butter of my career. Right now I'm in an obstinate, stubborn, very dark place. I'm in the sloppy, muddy pit of depression and I'm comfortable here, thank you, and it seems I may stay awhile.

If I don't find a job soon, Mark & I won't be able to afford rent to keep this particular roof over our heads by February 1st. If it hadn't been for Food Share, I don't know how we would've managed food for ourselves. We've had enough money to feed and care for the dog, and I started Christmas shopping in September, when finances weren't so dour. We're getting energy assistance. I'm not getting unemployment. I've never been in this financial situation. I've never been dependent on social services or public aid.

What has kept us treading water is my parents. They've paid for medical and dental bills, sent home days' worth of leftover meals from when we visit. God knows we appreciate everything they've done for us, but it's humiliating. That's my own ego talking, but there's truth in it. Who hopes to be turning 50 in six months and calling your dad to ask for insurance premium money? (No job means I have health insurance through the Affordable Care Act and pay insane amounts of money each month for sub-par coverage.) Who plans on your only regular income to be checks from your parents? I'm starting to look for cheaper apartments because my parents can't afford my rent. How fucked up is that?? This is not the life I pictured...ever. 

The humiliation I feel, the disappointment I see in my father's eyes, the incompetence I feel as a therapist unemployed for five months with no options in sight...I don't know how much longer I can survive in the depression pit. But I don't know what will help me find the energy or motivation to get out.

 

On This Christmas Eve...

I had to remind myself before I started typing tonight that Christmas Eve is not New Year's Eve and I need to save my end-of-this-absolutely-disastrous-fucking-year rant for another 168 hours. I've been writing down the low-lights, of which there are a plethora, since January when this shit-show of a year began. Ok, ok, focus. Back to Christmas Eve.

Throughout the day I've been remembering past Christmas Eves. My earliest Christmas Eve (I'll shorten that to CE going forward) memories are related to participating in my church's Christmas Pageant which, for my Sunday School years, was held on CE, not the Saturday before or after Christmas like it is now. I remember as a kindergartener and at least through 2nd grade, we dressed as angels. Donned in white sheets with halos fashioned from horribly misshapen wire hangers with silver or gold tinsel lopsidedly taped to them, we sang Away in the Manger for three consecutive years.

I'm not sure what our 4th grade class sang or wore, but I remember getting out of the car in the church parking lot that CE and inhaling the brisk winter air which stunned me slightly. I looked up to a cloudless sky, searching for the Christmas star, the star that led the Wise Men to the baby Jesus. In my nine year old mind, the brightest star I saw, likely the North star, was the Christmas star. 

My church had Sunday School through 8th grade, the end of which culminated in Confirmation. Every CE for four years the brightest star I could see in the night sky from the church parking lot on Marquette Street became the Christmas star. It was shortly after that when pageants were performed on a Saturday afternoon, which included my younger sister and brother. I was in college by the time my brother participated in his last pageant.

I was thinking of the first CE I no longer believed in Santa while reminiscing earlier today. That would be Christmas of 5th grade. 

My mother has always had a mild obsession with Little House on the Prairie. The TV show, the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, touring the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum somewhere in Minnesota, she's done the whole Little House gambit. For some unknown reason she made me and my sister wear cotton bonnets with the brim and long ribbons fashioned into a bow on the side of our chins, certainly not directly under them. I should define "made us wear cotton bonnets". She bought one for each of us and I remember wearing it a few times prior to attending junior high, but why we had them and when exactly we wore them is fuzzy. Anyway, the point is that my sister and I shared a full size bed like Laura and Mary Ingalls until Christmas of 7th grade when we got bunk beds. I've gone Freudian on that until my head spins, so don't go there.

Our bedroom was at the end of the hallway of your typical three bedroom, single level ranch house: the hallway starts in the dining area, first door on the left: bathroom, second door on the left: master bedroom, first (and only) door on the right: small bedroom, and the hallway empties like a river into a delta which was our bedroom. From our doorway we had a straight shot to see someone walking from the basement, through the kitchen and dining area into the living room, walking right to left.

By CE of 5th grade I was questioning this whole Santa thing. Our house didn't have a fireplace and chimney until 1978-ish. How did he get into our house before that? Was Santa committing B&E at every house in the world that didn't have a fireplace??

My 2nd grade sister and I agreed to stay up and monitor the view from our bedroom door opened just a crack, that CE. She was asleep by 8:30pm. I managed to stay up until 10:30pm when the show began. From bed I could hear repeated footsteps cross the kitchen and dining area. I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter! (LOL!) I peaked through the 2" opening between the door and the frame and watched my dad make the trip past me at least a dozen times, his arms loaded with wrapped packages. I shook my sister to show her who Santa really was. She groaned for a moment then continued her slumber. Dad starting shutting off lights and I jumped back in bed. My parents' room was to the right of ours, we shared a common wall with an air vent which is the cause of many nightmares I'll save for another story. So I had proven there was no Santa. 

I kept this nugget of information to myself through adulthood. As I write this I'm not entirely sure if I ever shared this discovery with anyone in my family. The lapse of memory could be due to age. That happens more often at a scary rate. It surprises me that I didn't tell my family because I was kind of a loud-mouthed kid and when I knew something my sister or brother didn't know, I liked to climb up the pedestal I created and look down on the world from Judgement Land. 

Today it's Christmas Eve 2020. I've spent time in quiet contemplation of Luke's telling of Jesus' birth from the New Testament. I've spent time outside and found my Christmas star. 

Merry Christmas everyone. May you find your own Christmas star.