When Christmas day suddenly loomed on the horizon, I was pleased that it had happened upon me so quickly.
It had sprung out of nowhere it seemed, and was rushing into being at break-neck speed.
We hardly had enough time to get the tree before midnight struck on Christmas Eve.
“Phew,” I thought. “It’s done. Granted, the Christmas meal wasn’t the best I’d ever cooked, though the tiramisu’, after an initial fit of rebellion, was as good as my tiramisu’ always is!”
Going to bed that night I gratefully thought:
Then something went wrong.
I mean, Boxing Day, as December 26 is called in England, started pleasantly enough.
“I am just going to relax today,” I told myself lying under the warm duvet in my comfortable bed.
A party we were going to go to that night, was cancelled due the snow blizzard heading our way.
“Hm. How cozy” I though. “We’ll just stay home.”
But I don’t know what happened after that, my mood gradually changed and by the time I woke up yesterday morning, at the crack of dawn as usual, I was in a filthy mood, spitting blood and ready to bite at the least provocation. In the absence of real provocation, I used my fervid imagination to imagine it.
I am finding that though Christmas came quickly, the whole Christmas Holiday thing is obstinately and painfully hanging around. I feel as though I am in a time bubble. Every minute lasts… longer than any decent minute should. Nights… Well, that’s another story… at the beginning the medications helped me sleep, now… I fear the night, long, dark…
I have spent the last couple of days unable to do anything constructive. Mostly, I have behaved like Mt. Etna, the Sicilian Volcano, or I’ve kept to my bed in a catatonic state, unable to write, unable to… wanting to snap out of it, but unable to.
What will today be like? I want to do something, I want to get out of the house, breathe the fresh air… but I am my own prisoner…
How long before I am free?
Picture of Etna courtesy of Time.com