Mother's Day was the first to go. My mom had just died, and when May next rolled around, the holiday suddenly meant nothing to me. It was a holiday for other people now. However obvious the feeling was, it was still surprising and jarring.
Alas. Christmas was next. And now throw Thanksgiving on the list. I'd rather just stay home by myself than sleepwalk through another holiday. They mean nothing to me beyond rote ritual. I vaguely remember them meaning something once, but it's so, so distant. They're all holidays for other people now. Fine by me. Have at 'em.
Most. Misunderstood. Post. Ever.
I'm not, repeat not, in need of cheering up. Indeed, I'm not down at all. I'm in my cozy Fortress of Solitude, happily baking and writing and not making awkward small-talk while dreading the three hour drive home. When I say that the holidays have stopped meaning much, this is just an observation, not a confession of depression. They've just quietly, steadily become less meaningful to me. The point was and is that I don't much care. It's merely a "Hmm." thing. So stop with the sympathy! Jesus H!