This year, it’ll be fun.
No stress, only pleasure.
Manageable plans only. Type A organisation. Meal plans, meditation, movement.
This December will be different. I’ll be different.
These are just a few of the Autumnal lies I tell myself. I’m not convinced by them for a second.
Jesus, even the apprehension is stressful.
The paradox of Christmas is stressful.
At a time of year when nature signals us to slow down, western society ramps up. Despite our urges to hibernate, we’re expected to shake it off, glam up, and visit every person we’ve ever met all within the space of three and a half weeks.
We’re faced with financial pressure when the coffers are all but empty, or at least, no more stacked than usual.
For the neurodivergent brain, it’s like unwrapping a shiny gift to find a bright yellow parking ticket inside.
A joyful burden.
I’m aware of how Grinch-y this sounds. I promise, I’m not a pessimist, and love the smell of pine and a roaring fireplace as much as the next girl. But this time of year breeds loneliness for a reason.
We’re left questioning:
Why don’t I feel more festive?
Why I am so bloody knackered?
How is everyone else having more fun than me?
What will everyone think of me if I say no?
It’s these thoughts that prevent us talking about it with others, who may be feeling just as overwhelmed as we are. Even the ones who seem to have it all under control. Especially the ones who seem to have it all under control.
It’s no surprise that the season of over-stimulation is primed for fight-or-flight responses. Between overcrowded streets, blaring jingle bells, flashing lights, and very little reprieve, our nerves are on edge. Rightly so. It’s not like daily life stops either. We still have work, vacuuming, laundry, the big shop. We still catch the flu, the dog eats something weird and ruins the carpet, our period shows up like an overeager guest.
That fine balance we’ve honed all year long to account for such events, which just about maintains our sanity, suddenly drops of a cliff.
December simply lacks breathing room.
Mixed with a time of typically poor nutritional intake, booze, and dismantled sleep routines, is it any wonder we’re left burnt out by January?
I haven’t even touched upon grief, the struggle of celebration against absence, the way the empty place at the table never appears to shrink, how most of us have one.
Perhaps the expectation of constant jubilation illuminates those wounded spaces within us.
In that vein, it feels important to share a recent revelation of mine. It occurred around the time of my final shift at the library before the big day, following a string of conversations with heavy-eyed women clutching gift bags and recipes. Between audible exhales, and tales of family drama, each patron uttered the very same words to me in hushed, shame-riddled tones:
I just don’t feel that Christmassy this year.
Now, my epiphany may sound super obvious to you. It might blow your mind. Who knows. But here it is.
Not only is Christmassy a questionable word, it is not an actual emotion.
I repeat: Christmassy is not an actual emotion.
Even if it were a true emotion, it’d still be subjective, like every other human feeling.
But Christmassy is simply synonymous to joy, is it not? Its absence is reported when we’re just living our lives, in our own typical states of emotion, as we do all year round.
December or not, do we truly believe joy can be so rigidly imposed?
As though by simply existing in a particular season, regardless of circumstance, we should be merry little souls. And if we don’t reach this standard of cheer, the defect must be within us, rather than the absurd expectation of 24/7 excitement.
I’m complicit in the madness, I know. I mince around in sparkly trousers, ribbons and feathers, doling out unnecessary gifts, sweating within my layers of paranoia about forgetting someone important, gifting unequally, fucking up the food, or buying nuts for someone with a severe allergy.
It’s easy to forget it’s a choice. Often, it doesn’t feel that way. Between the self and media-imposed pressure to achieve perfection, and the sexist load that falls to women, we know there would be backlash if we didn’t follow the annual agenda and pull our weight.
Oh, and the traditional Christmas Guilt. This peppers every emotion above.
Because, I’m lucky to have choices. Unlike some in the world this year, I’m not pulling children out from under rubble, or fighting to save my home.
As someone who faces a number of health challenges, and has been confined to my home or bed for long stretches of time, I know I should practice gratitude. I do, mostly. I’m grateful to have ice-skated this year, to have been able to socialise in town without catastrophic implications, to afford gifts for my loved ones.
I’ve enjoyed delicious food, and been at the recieving end of incredible generosity.
While it doesn’t negate the stress, the opposite is also true.
The stress doesn’t negate the Joy.
Of course, I could tell you to establish your boundaries, enforce them doggedly, and ignore the external pressure. But to do so would be hypocritical. I clearly haven’t nailed it, and many people in your life may resent you for scorning their sacred holiday rituals. There may be no avoiding that. You might hate the very thought.
So instead, here’s a little reminder that although it’s overwhelming and annoying and a hell of A Lot, lovely moments can still be found amongst the chaos, if only you allow yourself to experience them in parallel.
It may not be the most wonderful time of the year, but it needn’t be the least either.
Whether you’re donned with red lippy and tartan, or crying in jammies on the sofa, the holidays are yours to feel any way you like about.
No rules.
No wrong.