My therapist has an incredible memory. She reminded me I always get like this, this time of year. When everyone is supposed to be wearing sparkly shoes, and going to office parties and planning idyllic holidays at the beach, the "Coke ad" time of year, I tend to feel fragmented, squirmy, anxious and inadequate.
Or maybe I notice it more now because I'm so happy most of the time. I have no debilitating emotional conflicts at the moment. I just consulted my "Good things log", an occasional series in my journal, and It was full up with things to be grateful for. Made vegetarian lasagne. Played 500. Watched Stranger Things with the kids. Kids are happy at school. I have rose-tinted glasses. I got an A+ for my psychotherapy essay. I'm getting to work with cool collaborators on a TV script. In fact, I am surrounded by love and creativity and music and mess and little white polystyrene balls. (This week's tip: if you get a child a beanbag for her birthday and your kids ask may they climb in and "swim" in the polystyrene balls? Say No.)
So why do I still feel like running a mile when I see real fake snow?
Christmas always seems to make me feel I'm standing a little to the side of myself, looking at the life I have, and thinking about the one I don't. Social media can make that sense of having your nose pressed up against the glass of someone else's party even worse.
The weird thing is that I don't even want to go to any of those parties with sponsors and brittle small talk. I'd rather go home and have a nap. (The old person's version of pre-loading).