When you only see some people once a year, it is natural that after the initial Merry Christmas greetings, you compare resumes. "So, what have you been up to?" What should I say? I took a ten-week course on Skills for Safer Living with six other people, all of whom have attempted suicide in the past, just like me? It's not a good way to start a conversation. Nor is telling someone you're trying a new anti-anxiety pill that seems to work well. Once I ignore my depression and SI, there is nothing over the past year worth talking about; at least, that is what the Critic tells me.
It might sound counterintuitive, but once I have my drink in hand - usually a beer. (What am I saying? It's always a beer.) I try to stay with a group of people. This way, you can watch and listen without participating. Let others do the heavy lifting and carry the conversation forward. No one will notice that I am not part of the discussion. If they ask me something point blank, I just nod and agree.
My favourite Christmas Eve - more of a construct than a memory - is sitting alone by the fireplace, with a lazy flame dancing on a log. The tiny coloured lights on the Christmas tree scatter a cozy, warm hue. In my hand, I am sipping a Baileys on ice. In the background, choral carols float quietly, blessing the space. Everything is calm. My mind is clear. Everyone else is already in bed. I'm the last one to turn out the lights.
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