December 25th, 2020. I was in my quarantine hotel, spending the first real Christmas of my life, alone. I looked out the window of my hotel room. The gigantic Christmas tree was showing off its brilliant colors. The lighting by the sides of the street shone in a rainbow unison. I imagine the campus is just as well-decorated, and my schoolmates would be drinking and laughing at the Christmas party on-campus.
I was completely alone in my room.
I liked it better this way. Would’ve been worse if I had to go to some noisy, chaotic party.
I hate Christmas. I hate all celebrations, in fact.
Every Valentine, I see couples giving each other romantic gifts and friends giving each other well wishes and normal gifts. I am reminded of how I have neither friends nor girlfriend.
Every New Year, I see people huddled with each other, excited for the new year, satisfied with the old one. I am reminded of how I don’t get to experience that, and how failed my year was.
Every Mid Autumn Festival, I see families happy and enjoying each other. I see people enjoying delicious moon cakes. I am lucky that I have a good and healthy family, but I never celebrated it and only ate about two moon cakes in my eighteen years of existence.
I don’t get to celebrate birthdays and feel happy and proud of being older. I don’t get to eat zongzi on Dragon Boat Festival. I don’t enjoy children’s day because it is another day of just schoolwork and fancy meaningless words.
At this point, I have to ask, why? Why do we have the celebrations?
Then, a thought materialized in my brain, as my discontent and frustration built up, the thought grew clearer and clearer.
I am miserable. I am miserable because I am missing out on these celebrations. I miss out on the human connections. I miss out on the happiness. I miss out on the important culture. That is what is so important about celebrations, and what is wonderful about them. So next Christmas, I will try not to be the Grinch. That’s this Christmas, actually. 22 days to go.