Thanks-fucking-giving

Ah, the holidays: the time of year when we give thanks for what we have, at least in theory anyway.  In truth it’s a time of stress and/or depression.  It’s the time of year when far too many of us lament the lack of fulfillment or, for those on the flip-side of the coin, resent the burden of obligation they have to their family and friends that cause them stress and monopolizes their time and money.  For the sad-sacks, such as myself, we lament the lack of real flesh and blood people in our lives that care about us.  We see the smiling couples and laughing families out and about as we walk the cold and damp November streets alone and desperately hoping and searching for a meaningful connection with somebody, anybody, that might prove, to ourselves, that we are not alone in this harsh and brutally indifferent world and that, if we should die, somebody might actually care to notice and maybe even mourn our passing.  I’ve seen the pictures of the lonely and isolated people who have died in their sad little homes swelling to balloon-like proportions before the horrific smell of decomposition finally drives somebody to inquire about their existence, or lack-thereof, and I know, with terrible certainty, that there lies my pathetic fate if things don’t change.  Sure, my cell phone, that for the most part remains depressingly silent save the notifications of junk mail, might ring a few times when I don’t show up for work, but nobody I know would actually come looking for me if something fatalistic were to occur.  There would be no knock on my door until a neighbor just can’t stand the smell any longer, and since I live in a diverse community with many immigrants having brought with them various sorts of interesting odors to the land of the free, I know it would take some time before the odoriferous emanations of my rotting corpse would be noticed and addressed.  Even though, at this time of year, we are supposed to acknowledge what we are lucky to have, it only reminds some people of the exact opposite. 

Exacerbating the problem is the cursed knowledge that we really shouldn’t feel this way, even if we’re truly as alone as we feel, because we know it could be so much worse (side note: I’m using the royal we as I can’t possibly believe that I’m alone in these feelings, and though it would be nice to believe that I am unique in feeling this way, as that would set me apart from the rest of mankind in an interesting, though depressing, way; I’m far too realistic, and honest with myself, to believe that I’m original in any significant facet), making us hate ourselves, all that much more, for being so self-pitying and pathetic.  I mean, for god’s sake, there are people in the world whose lives are in danger every single day.  There are parts of Africa that are a living nightmare, such as which most Americans can’t relate to on any level regardless of the ghetto they may live in, where children are forced to murder their parents, where women are raped on a daily basis, where disease and famine are rampant, and here we are complaining that we’re lonely and unloved while we walk the streets with a steaming hot white mocha latte in one hand and a smartphone in the other.  I, for one, hate myself, that much more, for feeling this way, but I can’t pretend those feelings exist without lying to myself and living in denial.  I believe honesty is better than denial even if it’s negative.  At least that way we can face the problem head-on.

             Personally, I am honestly thankful that I still have my mother after her having battled breast cancer this past year.  She lives far enough away from me that I don’t see her often but if she were to pass away I would truly be alone.  My siblings and I are not close and I don’t have a father so once she’s gone I will have, essentially, lost my family.  However, I don’t have kids and it seems that there’s some unwritten rule for my parents, and maybe other’s as well, that if you haven’t given them grandchildren to visit then there’s really no reason to make the trip.  I’ll get the call, usually the day after they actually arrive, letting me know they’re in town and want to see me, but I had better drive across town to my step-brother’s house, where there are two grandchildren of course, if I want to see them.  They are from a very rural area and I’m just not worth braving the “crazy” Denver traffic to visit without having grandchildren to motivate them.  In the almost twenty years since I’ve moved out of their house they have seen all of three of my apartments.  So while I’m thankful I have my family I still resent the fact that they don’t seem to consider me worthy of their effort or time.  It’s a horrible feeling when you realize that your family considers you a second class member, and their affection and love have more to do with convenience that anything else

Thank you, oh so much, Thanksgiving for making me recognize all that I hate about myself.  I really appreciate it.

Thus ends my whiny little woe-is-me rant.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.  Isn't that what the holidays are for?  :)