The winter’s midday air was mild as it gently moved the trees from outside the window of a third story flat in quiet Clapham. Christmas had cleared the streets and emptied the houses as it does each year in London; all its residents dispersed to nestle in homes they had come from, save for one little Canadian who was already tucked tightly away at home. Finally.
I awoke this morning, spooning my favourite sheep, with a cat snuggled around my head, purring contently. London sat outside my window, waiting to greet me, as I rubbed my eyes and breathed a sigh of genuine merriment.
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Three weeks ago, I stood beside the Irish Sea, all of my belongings at tow, wiping tears that kept falling down my frozen face, trying desperately to see what possible silver lining the universe seemed so insistent to show me as it left me homeless. Yet again.
After returning from my London getaway, I left my bipolar flatmate and what I thought were all my troubles behind and accepted an invitation from my vegan boss to crash at hers while I figured out my next step. But my troubles most certainly weren’t behind me. In fact, they had made their way ahead of me, waiting impatiently to once again tug tirelessly at my resilience. My second escape to London only made things worse. Being back merely clarified how insufferably miserable I was. The day I was meant to leave, I woke in my mother’s hotel room still crying from the night before. My chest was pounding, though I struggled for breath. I paced the floor shaking my head. I can’t go back. I can’t do it.
My mom took me for a walk. We sat in a cafe in Kensington, her trying to console me as she watched me cry into my tea. I can’t go back.
But I had to go back. I couldn’t keep running away. Nothing was going to accumulate in Dublin. I was going to have to make a decision on my own. I returned, this time feeling defeated. I was exhausted and had no fight left in me. I gave my notice and watched those who once helped me turn into the most inexplicable monsters. I felt pieces of myself disintegrate as I rolled over at each hit. I lost wages, a roof over my head, and a lot of dignity. I had become completely deflated and felt unrecognizable.
So there I stood, for the very last time, alone in Dublin. I wiped my tears, found a pub, lugged my suitcases into a corner, and sat over a pint of Beamish, vowing never to let anyone take so much as a single piece of the person I built nor an ounce of the strength I’d accumulated ever again.
And then entered my saving graces. A man I had only known for a week a year ago in London and his girlfriend I had known a day. They swept me up, brought me to their homes, and for the next week made me feel whole again. My mother arrived days later and together we journeyed back to London where, finally, I would put the last three months behind me for good and begin to look forward.
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Christmas is a time to be with the ones you love. Every day is a time to be with the ones you love. Christmas is just another day. And so I choose to spend Christmas with the one I will always love; just me and my city. Alone at last. On the eve of Christmas Eve, we kept each other company as I strolled the bustling streets of Soho, wandered the festive markets in Leicester Square, and took in the mouth watering smells of Chinatown. I walked along the shores of Southbank, the London Eye and Big Ben grazing the skyline above. I listened to the wind break the calm waters of the Thames, as the city whispered softly, Welcome home, Chelsea.
After an afternoon filled with close friends, mulled wine, mince pies, and vintage Christmas Films at The Prince Charles cinema, Christmas Eve found me in the first flat I called home when I moved here some three years ago. I spent the evening in the company of Gonzo the Great and Michael Caine, Hugh Grant and Alan Rickman, and England’s most cherished snowman before I drifted into the deepest and most serene sleep I’d had in months.
Now I sit, cozied up to my laptop--my lifelong companion, tea and Baileys warming my belly, and a roast for one in the oven, with the sweet sounds of the New York Jazz Lounge wishing me a Merry Christmas.
With Ireland behind me, and everything ahead, I relish wholeheartedly in the fact that the only thing remotely stress worthy is whether or not I burn this festive bird to a crisp. I finally feel free and happy, and ain’t it wonderful knowing that this time neither of those feelings are fleeting. Now that’s what I call a true Christmas present.
Merry Christmas Everyone. Wherever you are xx
