Monday 25 December 2017

My grief at Christmas

I work as a psychiatric nurse with homeless people who have long-term mental health issues, physical disabilities and drug and alcohol problems. My patients are not suddenly removed from my thoughts when a season of enforced fun (surely the most woeful type of adult pleasure) envelops me like a leaden duvet. How can I allow myself to enjoy Christmas? 
I am told by social media and politicians to think about lonely people this Christmas (it is literally my job to think about the lonely. And if I didn't I am unlikely to be the kind of person whose behaviour will be positively changed by their message). I am told by capitalists to spend money because it will make me happy (and I know, from the enamel on my teeth down to the nails on my toe that this is bullshit of flabbergasting obviousness). I am bellowed at by advertisers with the nuance of a prison shank, their infantilising, saccharine, constant pre-watershed, radio-friendly drone eats away at the last warmth in me aimed at Christmas until, when the day itself arrives seemingly years after I am reminded that it is only round the corner, I have so little festive cheer left that I want nothing to do with anything other than my wife and my son and my own physical space. And I am told, as a vegetarian, that I need to eat lots of meat because nothing says compassion at Christmas time more than piles of pointlessly dead animals. I have become increasingly angry over the last few weeks at the disgusting consumerism that pervades Christmas, people buying shit they don't need and can't afford and getting poorer and poorer. It is rotten and ugly. 
It certainly isn't Christian anymore (a blessing in disguise, I guess. Spiritual connections to Christmas were eroded a long time ago not that they ever mattered to atheists like me). 

I think about Ruby every hour of my waking life and I hope, every single night when I go to sleep, that I will dream about her. Some nights I go to sleep and don't want to wake up and I want to be dreaming about her forever or, at least, not ever wake up to be reminded every hour that she isn't there. Christmas is a persistent reminder that my immediate family is missing someone and there is a constant gnawing of my resolve in the entire run up. I am told this is a family time but a quarter of my family doesn't exist anymore. 
Our Christmas cards don't have Ruby's name on them. We didn't buy her any presents this year. There is no stocking under the tree with her name on. Her brother Tom gets innappropriately expensive presents we can't afford to compensate for our "well, life is too short" explanations for being in debt. I spent the day with my in laws and they drink all evening and sing. Ruby is dead and they sing. On this "family" day. I made excuses that a recent back injury means I have to move around the house and keep mobile just so I can avoid their company to stop myself from crying every time a new song starts. I have found this Christmas to be alienating and lonely because I still get bewildered and squashed under the encumbrance of loss at times like these. There is no psychic weight like that of a gravitational mass beyond my control for which there is no pill, no treatment other than time (if that, even), to control its descent. 
My mum died a few months ago. My sister nearly died a few months ago and spent many weeks in a coma in intensive care. She barely survived. There were many aspects of my professional life that also contributed to 2017 being one of the worst years of my life and I'm glad to see the end of it. My Christmas was symbolic of the ugly mess and the chaos of the last year. 
Fortunately I have a genetic predisposition to optimism and, by lucky chance, I have an astute bullshit detector so I am staring intently at 2018 as it sidles over the horizon. It had better deliver.