So, This Is Christmas

Happy Xmas (War Is Over) was written by John Lennon and Yoko Ono in order to allow a message that was at the time radical - peace - into the homes of ordinary people. With that in mind, it feels a bit shallow to use the lyrics of a song condemning war and violence when talking about me successfully getting through Christmas unscathed.

However, it’s been stuck in my head since Boxing Day, when I emerged on the other side of a holiday I never thought I’d be able to get through and realised that I had not only coped, but that I didn’t shed a tear.

The days leading up to Christmas, I was a wreck. I spent most of my waking moments furious, and in tears, because every little thing would set me off. On Christmas Eve, I couldn’t get out of bed - because I did not know how I was going to cope seeing one less pile of presents downstairs, or giving my mum one less card, when I couldn’t even look at some party food at Lidl without wanting to cry - but I coped.

If grief is a war, then this is one of the biggest victories possible.

But then again, it feels like such an ugly way to look at grief, likening it to something so violent, so unnecessary. Because really, I need this. I need the grief, and every awful thing that comes with it, because at least through it all, I know that I loved Ellen, and she loved me, and her affect on my life was great enough that life without her can even be thought of in relation to a battle.

And there is something beautiful about that. It’s in no way my goal to romanticise grief, because it isn’t pretty, and it hasn’t been for me. But I’ve started to realise that grief at its core is unspent love. Grief is a hike with an expanse of hills - some of them are higher than others. Some of them feel like I’ll never get to the top. Sometimes, getting to the top of a hill and seeing another one right in front of it is more than I can bear. And yet, I bear it anyway - there is nothing else I can do.

2023 will be my first year, ever, where Ellen is not in it. And that’s one hell of a hill.

I always get introspective around new years. At the end of this awful year, I can’t stop thinking about the person I was at the end of 2021. She’s not one for hiking. She has no idea what’s coming.

She’s going to know the worst pain imaginable. But she’ll also have the best love. She’ll be surrounded by the most incredible friends and family. She’ll do things she never thought she’d be capable of. She’ll let go of embarrassment, she’ll learn that shame is a useless feeling. At the end of it, she’ll know her worth.

She’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.

I, like her, have no idea what’s coming in 2023. I’m not going to try and predict. I’m going into this year curious, and strangely excited, and most importantly, ready. I’m taking with me a wealth of pain, a wealth of strength, the Wetherspoons app on my phone, and the best friends & family I could ever ask for.

Thank you to everyone who has been there for me this year. No matter how close we are now, I appreciate you more than words, and I wish you all the best for the coming year.

Let’s hope it’s a good one.