If I go far enough, I’d say it all started when we moved. That’s when it was apparent my family was falling apart. Others could see it and many would question it, but I always held on to that hope that it was all just distance. That love will prevail and we’d all be a happy bunch. It wasn’t until recently that it all dawned upon me that it’s all gone now, and it wasn’t coming back. Did this realization hurt? I’m not sure. I was already so empty. Christmas became that annoying reminder that my family is shit, so i refused to “celebrate” it. From that day forward I never receive a present from under the Christmas tree, and I was okay with this. I still am. But today my mom informed me that I had boxes with my name on them under the tree. I would be lying if I said a wave of joy didn’t overwhelm me. For a slight moment I felt like a child ecstatic with the idea of Santa coming down my chimney and taking a bite off the cookies I’d left him sitting out by the tree.
When everybody went to bed I creeped downstairs and took a peak at one of my presents. They were slippers with a fabric I have commented to my mother about months ago. I would of never thought she would have recalled some insignificant remark I’d made a day ago, let alone months ago. It all just hit me. My mom must really love me. It makes me happy. Happy to the point of tears. And it makes me feel like maybe my family isn’t as bad as i lead myself to believe.