original; "I'll Be Heartbroken for the Holidays"eponinesyndromeDecember 20 2010, 05:30:14 UTC
I remember reading somewhere that Christmas was the most likely time of year to experience depression. I always thought that was such bullshit. Who could be sad during Christmas time? All the lights and the trees and the friggin' cheer! Everyone's so happy and excited and nice! There's this magic that hangs in the air for a whole month, charging the city from the inside out. Who could be sad with all that to look forward to? Personally, I always loved it, and I scorned the Scrooges and blasted my Bing Crosby for everyone to hear. I was the girl who was buying everyone's gifts on Black Friday and making Santa cookies and watching all the Christmas movies they play on TV as soon as Thanksgiving is over. I was the girl who was wishing everyone a merry Christmas and a happy Hanukkah starting December 1st.
But it's the day before Christmas Eve and I'm half-delirious as I walk from the coffee shop on East 15th Street, headed towards Union Square. My feet feel like they're made of lead as I drag myself up the sidewalk, shaking uncontrollably as I try to just breathe.
His face- the sad, pitiful look on his face- is stuck in my mind. He just looked so sorry, like the last thing he wanted to do was hurt me- like he felt so bad....
Suddenly, I stop in my tracks and lean against a tree, stupid little Christmas lights jabbing into my palm and cheek.
I'm going to throw up.
"You're my best friend, Kaye," he said. "You're my best friend and I can't lose you."
Best friend. Friend. Oh my God, I'm going to throw up.
As I breathe through my nose and ignore the aching in my chest, people pass me on the sidewalk. Just another freak in the city. It's just another girl having a nervous breakdown on the sidewalk. Just another customer, stressed-out during the holidays.
I can't breathe. I think- I'm pretty sure I'm going to suffocate on the sidewalk, against a tree tangled up in Christmas lights.
He doesn't want me. He doesn't think of me that way. And he's sorry. I'm his best friend, so he cares. But that's it.
For a moment I'm sure my chest is going to tear open, and I'm glad I'm at least not crying on the sidewalk by myself. But then I hear someone blasting Mariah Carey out of their car window as they drive by -
all i want for christmas is you
- and I think of the mix tape at home I meticulously put together for him, because I was so sure he felt the same way about me, the first edition book and the inside joke Barbie doll I have all wrapped up for him. And so I start sobbing right there on the sidewalk, with tiny lights growing hot, making indentations against my skin. And I suddenly hate Christmas too.
But it's the day before Christmas Eve and I'm half-delirious as I walk from the coffee shop on East 15th Street, headed towards Union Square. My feet feel like they're made of lead as I drag myself up the sidewalk, shaking uncontrollably as I try to just breathe.
His face- the sad, pitiful look on his face- is stuck in my mind. He just looked so sorry, like the last thing he wanted to do was hurt me- like he felt so bad....
Suddenly, I stop in my tracks and lean against a tree, stupid little Christmas lights jabbing into my palm and cheek.
I'm going to throw up.
"You're my best friend, Kaye," he said. "You're my best friend and I can't lose you."
Best friend. Friend. Oh my God, I'm going to throw up.
As I breathe through my nose and ignore the aching in my chest, people pass me on the sidewalk. Just another freak in the city. It's just another girl having a nervous breakdown on the sidewalk. Just another customer, stressed-out during the holidays.
I can't breathe. I think- I'm pretty sure I'm going to suffocate on the sidewalk, against a tree tangled up in Christmas lights.
He doesn't want me. He doesn't think of me that way. And he's sorry. I'm his best friend, so he cares. But that's it.
For a moment I'm sure my chest is going to tear open, and I'm glad I'm at least not crying on the sidewalk by myself. But then I hear someone blasting Mariah Carey out of their car window as they drive by -
all i want for christmas is you
- and I think of the mix tape at home I meticulously put together for him, because I was so sure he felt the same way about me, the first edition book and the inside joke Barbie doll I have all wrapped up for him. And so I start sobbing right there on the sidewalk, with tiny lights growing hot, making indentations against my skin. And I suddenly hate Christmas too.
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