Had you asked me yesterday my opinion about this statement, I would have sighed and nearly burst into tears. I would have automatically added a “good” in the middle of the sentence: everything good ends. I would have thought about my relationship with Andrew ending, about my skating career ending, about my youth leaving me day after day. Cosmic pessimism, there must be a gene for that.

Today, unannounced, a new thought crossed my mind.

I’ve been thinking about Christmas. It’s that time of year: the cold, the early sunset, the decorations, people doing countdowns to December 25th. I’m no Christmas enthusiast, I’ve never been one – did you guess? This family time thing is most definitely not my thing. Plus, this is going to be the first Christmas I’ll have to spend alone, i.e. without my former husband. This is the first Christmas I spend alone, knowing how not being alone feels like.

I have been avoiding the thought so far. Like, really avoiding. It was there, lurking, but I effectively swept it away everytime. Until today, the “solution” came to me even before I properly handled the problem. This is a first.

Everything ends: Christmas is just one day. 24 hours. Of which I am going to sleep at least 8.

I’ve been facing days, weeks and months of dread on end, I have survived each and every single one of them. 16 hours are nothing. I will just have to patiently wait until the day is over. Hour after hour, sip of wine after another. And then I’ll be free again for the next 364 days.

It’s not a dreamlike situation, but neither is my life, nor my family. It’s just the best I can do. I’m not religious, I basically hate the crap out of our “national” religious institutions and I am not going to feel “better”. Everyone should be “better” on Christmas. I won’t be. Or rather, I will once again be selfishly better, I’ll most definitely try my best to do what’s best for myself. So the Ghosts of Christmas will come haunting me? Let them, I’m open to a change of mind, but I’m afraid they’ll pat me on a shoulder and tell me to hold on, too.

Because in the end it’s not Christmas per se. The point is finding a trick to talk myself out of stress, out of dread, out of a morbid countdown where D-Day is like a death sentence. It’s like a drug induced coma: it’s induced, which means it’s not as bad as a clinical coma, but it helps healing and bearing the process. It’s anesthesia.

It will not solve the problem, it only helps coping. Will the problem ever be solved? I don’t know, I would tend to say I will think about it when other pressing problems finally fade away. After all, tomorrow is another day. Another merely 24-hour-long day.