Christmas, 2006 Styles.

Christmas is complete ass. I hate it, completely and entirely.

I spent Christmas eve with Andrew's family.
Being with the Keenans doesn't make me feel contented anymore, it makes me feel guilty. It's my own doing, I blew whatever I had with Andrew - I've accepted that it will never be the same. But sitting in the livingroom with his family, opening the piles of presents that they had bought me only made me feel worse. Odd stuff, my ability to always ruin the things that I've longed for. I'm getting quite good at it.
They gave me a chocolate fountain, along with giftcards, pyjamas and other random articles that I never expected from them. Andrew gave me the Harry Potter books, which I've been reading non-stop, along with madelaine pans and a candy themometer. I finally finished his Kool-Aid man and I'm quite positive that he is gazing contently at it right now in the condo. He loves it dearly, which feels nice.

But it's strange to give gifts to a man that I realise I don't love any longer. I think about him and I begin to miss the times that I was in love with him, the time we spent together and I feel depressed. That overwhelming flutter in my heart that always kept me coming back to him is no longer there.
Helen and Scott gave their parents an album of their wedding pictures. There were pictures of Andrew in it, when he was slim and well kept. When I look at them the flutter returns and then I see Andrew now, with the stains on his shirt and his unkept beard and I'm just disgusted. I guess I'm not as good as I thought I was.

Being at my mother's house for Christmas has always been a delicate situation. My mother's family is full of wackjobs, racists, alcoholics and mild-mannor sugar-fanatics with gigantic mouths. Christmas dinner can either be absolutely hilarious, or absolutely painful. It usually depends on how much Uncle Tim has had to drink and whether or not my Uncle PJ has done something to piss off my grandmother before arriving.
This year was quick and painful. A happy combination because it only makes you semi-crazy, allowing your temper to flare for only a few moments, and thankfully, during the right ones.

Dinner was eaten, presents were given and then everyone left, except Russ, who stayed till twelve o'clock discussing the moral decline of the universe with my mother.

"Y'know Russ, I've had kids come into the college who have helicopter parents. All they do is hoover over their children, wanting to know every detail of their lives. The children never learn when parents do that."

My mouth sort of swung back and forth at that point

"I had one student come into my office the other day and he didn't even know what programs he had registered for. Can you imagine?"

I wish I had the ability to gain the mobility of my jaw, or had somehow found the courage to blurt out, "DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE GIANT MISTAKE OF PUBLIC RELATIONS MOTHER? THE COURSE YOU PUSHED ME INTO BECAUSE YOU WANTED MY FATHER TO PAY CHILD SUPPORT FOR AN EXTRA YEAR?" But it somehow failed me and so I just sat blankly listening to the two of them natter away about their hypocritical opinions on religion, parenting and life skills.

At one point Russ was talking about how one of his Father's friends had died of stomach cancer and he directly blames the man's wife for it because she was an absolute pyscho. My mother calmly agreed adding that, "some people just do not know how to handle their loved one's emotional stability."

And I just blankly gazed across the room, my head reeling, listening to the absolute rubbish, once again.

There will come a day when my mind snaps and my tongue gets the best of me and I relay the two years of bullshit I lived through after my father left. I'll be sure to mention the picture frames flying at my head, the holes I punched through walls, the accusations of abortions which were spread like wild fire around her office and of course, the night she called the police on me to ask them to escort me from her property because I reminded her too much of her husband.

But of course, my mother is someone who understands how to handle their loved one's emotional stability.

The Shera shoes that I got Dan to paint for my sister are absolutely adored, almost more than the idiot string mittens that went along with it. My mom was stunned by her teapot and Stacey wiggled merrily on the couch at the sight of her beaded egyptian necklace. It was an excellent feeling to cause someone such happiness. What can I say, I am a giver.

The next day Chelsea and I calmly left my mother's house (for the first time in four years), and grudgingly arrived at my Father's.
It's nice to see Dad. I miss him the most out of everyone I've left behind in Niagara. I worry about him a lot, with his health issues and drinking problems, so it's nice to see him happy and busy and comfortable in his home. I see so much of myself in him these days, especially now that I own such an overwhelming inability to keep my life in line. The apple didn't fall too far from the tree, I am just like him. Seeing Mir though wasn't as pleasant. I knew that she was going to have me working in the kitchen, I just didn't expect the work load that came with it.
Andrew and his parents arrived for dinner before my Aunt and Uncle. It was bizarre to have them in the house, but they got along exceptionally well with my family and the whole time I couldn't help thinking, "Why did I allow this? There's such a slim chance we'll stay together. Why allow the parents to befriend eachother?" But as there was nothing to be done about it, I went back to eating my ridiculously rare beef wellington and twice baked potatoes.
I showed the photographs of what I had done in school to my Uncle Paul and after he hissed, "If I were you, I would have made a crapload of money by now with my talent! What is wrong with you child!?" And I just sighed. He finally convinced me to finish the scruffy book. If he's going to do all the hard work of getting it published, I might as well just get on with it. Who knows, maybe I will become rich and famous.

All the hours that I had spent baking cookies for my loved ones seemed to be a gigantic waste of time. My Uncle Mike was really the only person who was overwhelmed by them. He gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek while sentimentally saying, "You didn't have to think of me like that Anna, thank you." That was worth the hours spent in the kitchen. I would have done it all over again for him.

The day after Boxing Day I tried to see blue tie but he wasn't around.
Sitting in the car on the way home depressed me. I was trying to run over the reasons as to why I liked him, but couldn't figure out a single one, other than ridiculously superficial points that could apply to anyone that's semi-intelligent and sarcastic.

But I still want him.

I beat him with telephone calls last week, begging him to tell me what he wanted out of me because our five minute meetings were finally fucking me enough to leave me crying in the shower, gasping for air and puking up bile. The anxiety attacks are becoming so severe that they leave me ill and completely depressed for at least a week. The odd thing is that I don't think that he is the reason that is causing them.

I just think I'm homesick.

But Christmas didn't allow me the time to think of him, or of home. I just mingled with family, made food and stressed out over money. Every twenty-four-year-old's Christmas Dream.

Now I'm just waiting for Andrew Essar to call me back so we can hangout over New Years. Oddly enough, I don't think I'll get the call.

Third Degree.

I should have stayed away, again.

I'm like that kid that continually burns themselves on the stove, even though their mother and the stove has given them ample reasons not to touch it. It's just, the stove is so attractive and you can make choux paste on it and well, choux paste is yummy and my selfcontrol is about as strong as strungout smack addict's ethics.

I had every intention of being mad at him. I actually punched him when I saw his blue shirt. I punched him and then I looked at his face and I melted into a pile of idiocy. My learned hatred for him apparently owned an expiry date and it lasted all of five minutes.

I cannot say what happened between the two of us. All I know is that what happened has left me more fucked up and more confused about everything than I ever have been.
It's bizarre that one man has the ability to not per say, make you want to do things for him but rather, make you want to do things because you realise you could have something different. But when has different ever been the right answer?

I thought about getting a job in Niagara on the Lake and living in a one room appartment until student loans are paid off. I thought about fucking off and going to Europe to learn how to make real pastry from the finest. I've thought about staying in Toronto and living this ordinary life of a housewife, the one I thought I wanted, and sort of still do, but not now.

I've thought about so many things, especially him. Especially what he could never give me because he's failing miserably at giving it to someone else right now, so really, what's the point?

I wish I learned how to hate him earlier. I wish I was smart enough to not get involved in this. I wish he knew how to tell me what I needed to hear in order to act accordingly and I wish I had the smallest fucking clue.

This makes me feel so stupid.

I caught him looking at me when another man was kissing my arm and I thought that maybe I saw a sparkle of jealousy, but I can't be sure. When he asked me to come back tomorrow, he sounded so desperate, but I don't know for what. There are times when he absoultely wants me and then there are moments when it's just about, "what he needs." And after we've had our two minutes together and he needs to return to his world that doesn't include me, I hate myself for a week and silently weep over the way I'm running my life in the passenger seat of my boyfriend's car.

I know that I should never be married. I can't be. It's not in me to do.

Andrew and I sat down and chatted again about the state of our relationship.
Things had been fine until I went home and saw all the things I missed. He says he doesn't want me to stay if I hate it here, he also says that I'm making him feel guilty because it's him that's apparently making me stay. He also said, "Maybe it's completely out of line for me to say this, but it just seems like you're not trying at all to make this work". Hearing that now doesn't make me angry, it just depresses me.

I don't spread my legs every night because I want to fuck you d00d, I spread them because I feel like shit for not doing it. How's that for trying?

This whole existence is just so diseased, I have no idea what to do to make it right.

Still.

"I must give the impression that I have the answers for everything.
You were so disappointed to see me unravel so easily.

It slowly changed only everything I know.
Even the things that seem still are still changing.

I stay focused on details that keeps me from feeling the big things,
but watch the likeness go wrong in the things that seem still, are still changing.

Even the things that seem still are still changing "

Fuck you Folds.
Always putting the most complex of feelings in the most simplest of ways.

So you listen to your song and at first it's a nice melody - pretty lyrics. There's parts in the song where the vocals and music mesh so well they make your heart flutter. And then when you begin to learn the lyrics and you start to realise that they are applicable to your existence, your soul suddenly becomes a black, shivering mess of memories, pain and confusion.

The brilliance of it leaves you numb and ready for a warm bath. You want to crawl into a hole, you want to forget the experience of the song.

And then it makes you realise you've found your new favourite song by Ben Folds.