I just spend an hour writing an email to a friend about her mutha-fucking crazy family member who ruined Christmas…again.
Oooooowhee, I got off scot-free this year. No dramas with either side of my family. Is there anything worse than a drama at a significant celebration?
I used to always have anxiety around significant celebrations until only a few years ago, due to residual childhood bullshit. I would be so anxious I would be sick, and even now I feel a slight gnawing at the soul when good times come around. What will happen? Who will act out? Who will ruin it? The hypervigilance kicks in and I am left wondering what normal is, and what fun is supposed to look like.
It wasn’t until my quack interpreted a few things about my experiences, that I realised how fucking up at a significant family event can be so damaging, that it can take years to get over. This is why I hate my birthday so passionately. I hate it so much I even considered becoming a Jehovah’s Witness just to escape the pain that comes around every May.
This is why everyone should be on their best behaviour at events. Wishful thinking? I know, yes but still, I am nothing, if not an ‘zoloftomist.’
I am having a party soon; for my book, my fortieth birthday, for getting through the GFC and not having to sell my kidneys, for being alive, for the return of the egg flip Big M, for whatever the hell reason I want it be about. I have deliberately made it relaxed. No drama, at home, friends and family, good times. I have set some personal rules and made it how I want it.
Gotta love getting older and letting go.
Peace out lovers.
“I don’t know your mother, but I’ll tell you something. She did it to you and her mother did it to her and back and back and back all the way to Eve and at some point you just say, “Fuck it, I start with me.”
Lowell from Postcards From The Edge.