The first
Christmas I remember is the year I turned four. At the time, my mom, brother,
and I were living in a yellow house with French doors and—of all things—a
carpeted kitchen. Ever the insomniac, I crept out of my room sometime after
midnight and discovered a mound of aggressively pink Barbie accessories. And to
tell you the truth, I loved them. I loved them hard.
I don’t expect
dolls this year. In fact, I don’t expect anything. It’s been more than two
decades since “the year Santa brought me the Barbie pool,” so I’ve had time to
learn that Christmas is less about getting and more about giving—about
sharing love, time, effort, a kind word. It’s about selflessness, and about
spending time with those whom you love. And, as we all know, it’s a
celebration.
I’ve had
“Birthday Party of the King” stuck in my head for a few days now, and I was
humming it earlier, when I tested strands of lights and consequently glared at
the ones that didn’t work. That aside, there’s a lot to be grateful for. At
this time last year, I had already slipped into what would be a year-long
depression. As you may know,
I took a six-month leave of absence from my job at
the state. Things were just too much, and I resigned in June.
In July, I
started writing for
Pivot Marketing (whose office is a ten-minute walk from my
apartment). Getting used to “#agencylife” has had its challenges, but I love
it. I’m so thankful that my boss is understanding, flexible, and encouraging.
In the few months I’ve been there, I’ve written newsletters, blog posts, NPR
radio scripts, ad copy, web copy, and video scripts. My clients include an
architectural firm, a Jewish nursing home, an Episcopalian church, and a
Lafayette-based law firm that gives me an excuse to swing by Purdue.
Outside of work,
I’m involved in a few preservation groups. I’m actually a board member for
a non-profit that is trying to revitalize a historic theater that’s been vacant
for 20 years. This means I attend meetings, listen to folks talk about
tax credits, and then find a way to insert a joke about cats. I’m also involved
in
the Instagram community here in
Indianapolis;
I help plan monthly “Instameets” (photo walks) and help manage the account. It
may sound trite, but I am thankful for Instagram, too. The heartfelt
conversations that resulted from starting
#depressionisalyingbastard helped me
fight through an incredibly challenging time.
Things are better
now. I laugh. I eat. I put on pants before 4:00 in the afternoon. I’m still
head-over-heels for Ty, who’s been my “other,” my better three-quarters, for
more than two years. And I’m madly in love with my brother’s son, Max, named
for our grandfather. He was born in October, nine months after my brother told
me, “You need to get your shit together, because you’re going to be an aunt.”
And I did, just
in time. After months of desolation, I find that I’m filled with love—for my
family, my friends, my “other.” I couldn’t have gotten through this last year
without them, without you. So thank you, too. For your patience, support, and
understanding.
Thank you. I wish you the happiest and merriest of
Christmases
. May every strand of lights you own work, and
may your days be filled with the things
you love.
Merry Christmas,
Dawn
