Wake Up Slowly

Thanksgiving at Christmas.

I wake up slowly on Christmas morning. My eyes open quickly, fluttering with glittering anticipation. But the rest of my body is patient, lips spreading into a serene smile as my mind forms cheerful thoughts, my nose detecting the scent of freshly brewed coffee and my father's cinnamon rolls. My limbs leisurely ease and tangle under multiple layers of toasty blankets.

 

Sitting up, I notice--for not the first time--how thoughtlessly happy I am. There is nothing awry with this happiness,; I feel no remorse about it. But I recall with a great amount of bitterness how I found much difficulty in experiencing such happiness the previous Christmas. Last Christmas, I jolted awake, my face raw with dried tears, my pillow still mocking me with its salty dampness. Foolish tears, they seem now, but a year ago the troubles that evoked those tears ruled my life, destroyed my life, and caused me to desire to end my life.

 

Have I really changed so much? I ask myself while stretching, having finally divested myself of the quilts and comforters weighing me to the mattress. I feel rested and quite awake, but remember again how that is so different from last year--I had awakened on little sleep, my body exhausted and aching. And I remembered writing once, and feeling once, "From beneath these sheets the earth is dark and vengeful." I feared waking, was petrified by the harsh brutality of my consciousness. I wanted the end. Living was not enjoyable and waking back to it was even worse. I prepared myself each night, just in case my wishes came true and I never woke up: I kept a suicide note around. I carried it in my back pocket for two weeks straight. I told no one, and kept that secret well, but the turmoil of just keeping the note on my body should have been enough to kill me.

 

The reasons for my struggles were few, and disgustingly simple. I could list them on one hand--although listing them would only have made me feel worse. If you had asked me then, had you known of my plight, I would shake my head and give my nervous smile, the one I use when I'm putting on a face, hiding behind that happy mask. I would say it was too complex to explain or describe. However, that was not the case. The events that began my path towards self-destruction are now very easy to describe: my friends were not good friends.

 

I laugh, shivering, because those friends I then considered so bad and neglectful are still my friends. I told a few of them of what they'd done, but I have yet no evidence that they are aware of how they truly affected me. It was bad enough that they began the problem, but they deepened already paralyzing pains by ignoring me--as if they didn't notice. I was heralding my terror on my face, yet they saw no point to how I felt. My emotions were invalid, rendered me useless, and I was brushed off time and time again when I deliberately requested not to be pushed away.

 

I pull a sweatshirt on over my tank top. Christmas or not, happy or not, it is very cold upstairs. A year ago, I got dressed completely. Thick, drab socks, followed by jeans and a sweatshirt I could hide myself in. I thought no one wanted to see my pajamas. Pajamas are happy and cozy, and I didn't feel either of those things exactly. I had buried myself in clothing and gone down the long winding stairs, flashing my deceptive, half-convincing smile at my family. 

 

Pulling on my striped, knee high socks, I realize that is wasn't so long after Christmas that I managed to let my family find out about what was squalling inside me. I never told them directly. I spoke through other people, I made the incident as far from them as possible to save them from the furies on the tempest in my heart. They weren't a piece of the puzzle, they didn't increase my problem, and I would have hated myself tenfold if they were to suffer for my already shocking grief. I assumed they were fine with it, and they gave me space, but it is painfully obvious now how much I hurt them by concealing such a wound from them, and by keeping such a dark distance.

 

A year ago, this morning was riddled and twisted with my own selfish pains. And it did not take an entire year, but months, a few startled breaths, to comprehend my purpose on this earth and the intentions I have for living. I look down at myself, smiling and just knowing… knowing how grateful I am for life. Knowing how I have been given grace by Christ, that he came to the earth to die for me, and that I must now live for him. It is Christmas, and I am joyful, but in ways that you would think I should experience during Thanksgiving, I am thankful. I am thankful for the joy of life.

 

I stand in the bedroom mirror, beaming at that bright reflection staring back at me. I look like a mess, and I accept it. I feel brilliant, and I accept with much more grace. I stand with my hands on my hips, feeling secure and confident in my rainbow pajama pants and my striped socks, my wrinkled sweatshirt and my hair that refuses to stop being emo and won't get out of my eyes. I stand firm with my ridiculous attire and with my righteous purpose. I can conquer the world, I can tell the truth. I will go downstairs, and open my stocking, while looking incredible in all of my absurd glory. Last year, I lived with the ache of a tragic and mortal secret; this year, I am thankful to be alive despite all of life's turbulence, and the smile on my face is telling all the world.

 

Reviews

[Gregory Mark Connolly]

Hey, that was well written. It seems like deep down, everyone needs something that's more powerful than they are in their life, may it be God or somebody else. I know I sure do.

[Jeremy]

I am speechless, all I can say is wow. This is a truly inspiring and heartwarming story. I am glad that you found the strength to go on, and that you discovered that God is always there when you need him. Keep the faith, keep on writitng, and know that anytime you need to talk someone will be there listening. God bless.