Page 58 of Love Letters to Christmas

He nods, affirmative. “Paula Deen. The butter queen. If we both don’t die from a heart attack by Christmas in December, we’re doing something wrong.”

I laugh. “Christmas in December?”

“I think Christmas should be every month. Christmas in January. Christmas in February. We can break for October and November, but only because I’m scared of witchy girls and love Thanksgiving. Flood every other month with Christmas cheer and Christmas letters. The world would be a kinder place.”

Isn’t that just the theme of every Christmas movie out there? The power of kindness and generosity to combat the world’s natural tendency toward negativity and selfishness.

Sadly, the part that makes Christmas special and fresh often fades with time even when it’s only once a year. Kids grow up. They lose the magic and gain the workload. They join the elf and Santa force when they’re already tired. It’s no longer about just enjoying the gifts given to them. Now they have to be the ones to create those gifts for others. It turns from selfish and easy, to selfless and hard.

That’s the beauty of what Brian does. All year round, he takes the brunt of the magic upon his shoulders and presents it to adults with tired children sleeping inside of them. He shares his joy, because other’s happiness compounds his own.

He is the least selfish, most wonderful person I have ever met.

And, for some reason, he thinks I’m worthy of the kindnesses he offers.

That has to mean something to me, right?

Thathasto heal something in me, doesn’t it?

It has to make me feel blessed rather than perpetually inadequate, right?

Ithasto result in gratitude instead of this hollow fear that I’ve somehow tricked him into thinking I deserve anything good…doesn’t it?

I…hate this.

I hate my brain. I hate the way I look at the world. I hate everything inside myself. Ihatemyself.

I hate my bitterness. I hate my fear. I hate my worry. I hate, hate, hate.

I am a direct opposite of Brian. I am everything he isn’t. I am a nightmare. And it’s a nightmare to live inside my skull, trapped within the bone, constantly comparing, constantly battling for a fleeting sensation of peace or worth or meaning in this horrible landscape I create with my own two hands.

I am a product of the darkness and the sadness and the insults I grew entrenched in. My spirit lies rooted in a subtle, constant negativity. It does not know what it means to be enough. It does not know what it means to see something good and enjoy it without wondering if it’s supposed to bebetter.

Logic demands I understand that there is nothing I can become that will ever seem good enough. Logic demands I recognize that peace isn’t in the potentials; it’s in the now. Peace is taking hold of what is in reachright nowand demanding that you’re happy with it.

I amgratefulto be here.

I amgratefulfor oil-free mushrooms.

I am grateful.

I am a grateful person.

And when I’m not, I will employ grace.

Because I’m still growing.

Like a sourdough starter, I just need to be patient and feed myself the truths that lead to growth. And if I spill out of my bowl and onto the counter in a dreadful mess? So be it.

That doesn’t mean I’mtoo much. It just means my environment needed to grow, too.

Forcing myself to take in air, I scoop a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth, fix my eyes on the movie, and determine tothrive.

Chapter Twenty-one

Thriving is, actually, quite hard.

Amelia

---