I try so hard to be happy. To enjoy things. I don't know why; sometimes it ends up making me feel worse, far away, going through the motions. But I want to be happy. Customers at work ask how I can stand the corny music, and think I'm being sarcastic when I shrug and say, "I like it." I insist on a Christmas tree, put up lights and silly decorations and sit at home alone among them. As if it will make something good happen, something in me shift. I wait.
I end every Christmas in tears, whether it's the past hanging over me, the food refused or gotten rid of, an imminent hospitalization, or something unnameable. Yet I don't want the season to be over. I want to walk home at night and see lights around me like hope hanging from wires, walk to the stores and feel like I'm on a mission instead of just wandering. I just want to feel something different. I want things to be different.