Once again I'm caught up in the Christmas PTSD, unable to dismiss the memories of the horrible discovery ten years ago that my husband would rather keep his girlfriend than his marriage. I think because of the switch in anti-depressant, it's hitting me hardest this year of all years.
I frankly hate all the Christmas fuss. I have ever since I realized at 14 that if I didn't make Christmas, it wouldn't happen. And if I did make it happen for my little brothers, it would happen without me.
I never know what to get for Jack. Not anymore, anyway. There's nothing he wants or needs, he says. I say the same thing, only because every time I ever asked for something, he gave me something different--what he thought I should have instead of what I asked for. I've given up asking.
I am looking forward to Christmas morning with the grandkids. That's something positive, I suppose.
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