Christmas, now.

One year ago at this moment I was laying on top of a dirty mattress laid out on the floor of a filthy room in what could best be described as a "crack-house". I was curled up with a bottle of whiskey which replaced the bottle of vodka I'd already consumed the night before, still empty and cast aside next to me. Maybe. It's hard to even remember. I had been drinking heavily for a few days now. During the Holidays the festive mood allows for absence of character and logic. Handing a severe alcoholic a bottle of whiskey, picking him up to go out to the bars doesn't seem to be that big of a problem, tis the season to worry about things later. I was only waking up from my drunken stupor to shake off the fogginess, blink my eyes, take a deep breath and get ready for more. More drinking, more embarrassment I'll never experience; my drinking was a matter of one or two drinks before black-out. My body was taking desperate measures at this point to combat the extreme amount of toxins I was funneling down my throat.

I was alone. I was alone on the mattress with the sun shining through the disheveled metal mini-blinds on Christmas Morning. I was somewhere, somewhere dark and smoky the night before on Christmas Eve, the night my immediate family celebrates together with an expensive prime rib dinner and gift exchange; usually the best night of the year, unless of course, you're me and then it is the most uncomfortable night, the night you dread all year long. I hadn't planned this, I didn't even want this. But here I was and there was nothing else I can do about it. Choke down another. Hope it doesn't come back up, just about the only hope I experience anymore.

For every binge there's the moment you realize it's time. Time to get up and face the repercussions of your actions. I got up and stumbled home that evening Christmas night. Stumbled back into bed, past the Christmas tree. Past the area where a day earlier was filled with presents where now sit just the ones ready for me to open, staring at me mockingly. The tangible proof of my selfishness, my lack of humanity, the harsh reality that I have nothing to give to people who do nothing but give to me.

The withdrawal this time was brutal. Knowing I had ruined Christmas for my Mom, Dad and brother, not to mention my cousins, close friends both here and visiting, made my symptoms even worse. I had never, in 30 years missed a Christmas. I was hollow inside. I knew the worst part was still to come and I was dreading it more than anything. Every time my Mom asked if it was time I moaned no, it wasn't, I couldn't possibly, I have too much anxiety still. But I knew I had to, I had to get it over with. So two days later, shaking from every cell in my body (the "shakes" as they call them) I took a deep breath, put on some clean sweats and sheepishly sat down in the middle of the sofa, presents surrounding me ready to open. Hours of hard work fretting over whether or not I would like them, worrying if it was the right size or brand, hoping I'll smile when I rip open the carefully decorated boxes. Here I was sitting in the place of honor with absolutely nothing to give back, nothing worthy of these people who do nothing but worry about me, pray for me, give to me all they have. I have nothing to give back. I don't deserve anything and yet here I am opening these gifts from people, people who love me more than anything, still, after all the pain I've caused them, all the sleepless nights, headaches, tears and anger.

Christmas morning, a year later and the Story of Christmas, of Christ's birth has never meant more to me. It's all clear to me the sacrifice, the gift, the giving up of one's best for those who deserve less than nothing; more than it ever has. We can hear the story thousands of times and still never truly understand it. I'm extremely fortunate to have lived it, experienced it first hand, yet so few do.