Santa and smiles

I hate holidays, but I love the parties they inspire. I love the chance to get dressed up in wacky, holiday-themed outfits and fancy hairpieces that I spend all day creating, finishing them just moments before I'm supposed to be running out the door. I love having a little bit too much to eat and lot too much to drink. I love getting getting wild and crazy with old friends and making some new ones along the way.

At least, I used to love these things. But that was B.D.: Before Depression. Over the past few years, I've grown to dread parties more and more. If I could actually motivate myself to attend - a rare occurrence, indeed - I'd spend the entire time feeling isolated and awkward. If I'd actually gone through the trouble to get dressed up, I'd become uncomfortable when people would compliment me or bring attention to it. Good friends would greet me warmly and ask how I was doing, but I was in such a fog that I could barely hold a conversation. These attempts at connecting would trail off awkwardly until one of us could find an appropriate reason to go do something else. I'd start drinking heavily, hoping to loosen up and enjoy the party, but this would only make me tired and I'd leave within an hour or two of arriving.

This past Saturday, Seattleites took their holiday party to the streets with their annual participation in Santarchy (or Santacon, depending on who you ask), and I was right there with them. Photos of me from the event have started popping up on social media sites, and I can't help but notice that big, cheesy smile on my face in every shot. These weren't the half-assed, faked smiles I'd seen in other photos over the past year. These photos reflected true joy - a feeling I'd given up on some time ago.

Photo courtesy of IRDeep
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I spent two days working on my Christmas tree costume for the event, featuring a very sparkly and elaborate tree-topper star headpiece. I wasn't sure who would be there or who I'd hang out with, but that didn't matter when my husband dropped me off downtown to join the festivities. I immediately spotted some people I knew and said hello, but I didn't cling to them in an attempt to avoid strangers. Instead, I stood on the sidewalk holding my beloved saxophone - something that was sure to draw attention - and chatted happily with anyone that passed by. Sure, it took a little time before I was comfortable enough to start playing my instrument, but that was really more about performance nerves than social anxiety. As the event went on I met up with more friends and even made a few new ones. Eventually we left the crowd in search of dinner and then moved on to an afterparty, where I continued to have a great time until I passed out - more from exhaustion than all the drinking I'd been doing. I woke up the next morning with a slight hangover, which I chose to look at as a welcome reminder of the previous day's shenanigans, rather than a burdensome result of poor moderation. If I had it to do over, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

And even now, as I'm writing this, I'm smiling. Maybe it's not that big, cheesy smile from the pictures, but it's an honest-to-goodness, real smile. And, if I do say so myself, it's beautiful.