It’s October, and October means two things… Halloween and Ren Faire — not necessarily in that order. We’ve pulled the boxes of Halloween decorations down from the attic and started rummaging through them. The living room is a glorious mess.
Since the storm 4+ years ago I haven’t had the same manic motivation for Halloween that I have always had. Maybe it was knocked out of me by depression, maybe my brain was too busy operating in life-support mode to devote the neural energies toward it. Maybe seeing those containers of useless Halloween decorations stacked on the lawn of my shattered house — my shattered life — perfectly intact next to the ruins of the rest of my possessions, the things that I would have happily traded every Halloween for the previous decade to have back, evidence of a lifetime of living… maybe that banished Halloween from my soul.
Lady said it best at the time:
I wanted to set those containers of Christmas and Halloween decorations on fire, seeing them sitting there on the lawn while we dredged through the ruined remains of the house. Fat load of good they were to us, and a reminder of all the useful things we lost.
But regardless, we took them with us. They were still reminders of good times gone by, every bit as useful in that regard as the photographs we lost. How can you not go through your Christmas decorations and not remember when you got an ornament, or who gave you that star for the tree?
Two years ago I took part in staging Halloween with my friends who were hosting a party at their place. I summoned the energy and as much enthusiasm as I could muster and built lots of great props and things, but I was still underwhelmed regardless. The enthusiasm was more for the creative outlet than for Halloween, but it didn’t quite gel for me. I felt out of sync with the occasion. It felt like I had doused the flame further, rather than rekindling it.
Last year was the first year I actually took the decorations down from the attic and put a few out, but nothing like years past. For some reason those containers of decorations seemed so large, and yet so full of stuff that I couldn’t be bothered to put out for the holiday, to make my home festive for the time of tear I looked forward to more than any other. So many cheap and cheesy baubles, almost embarrassing for a guy pushing 40 to have around. So many lights that would be more of a hassle to hang and take down, than to enjoy while they were up. And what for? No party of my own to decorate for… no constant stream of people coming around on the weekends during the month of October to enjoy it with me, to share my juvenile enthusiasm.
Last year I was a passive participant in the Halloween party, dressing up and showing up but not contributing. The energy still wasn’t there. It was just another day.
But I saw a glimmer, somewhere deep down in the darkness. There was something there, it was weak and faint — but it was there.
This year, I feel like someone recovering from an illness: the will to move and act is there, but the body is still run down… yet gaining strength every day. My head is getting into the right space — I can feel the tumblers clicking into place. A little over a year ago my inner 8-year-old was given cotton candy and an espresso — by the cutest and most wonderful enabler ever to cross the Atlantic — and he’s been set loose to recharge my soul with his manic energy.
My soul has been running on fumes for too long — 4+ years to be specific.
I’m getting my juvenile enthusiasm back. Who cares if a guy pushing 40 decorates his house with purple lights, skulls and crappy polyester cobwebs for one month out of every year? Who cares if he dresses up like a tard for a party and has a marvelous time hanging out with others who dress just as mentally deranged? Who cares if he gets covered in pumpkin guts carving jack-o-lanterns into the wee hours?
He cares.
He cares very much to decorate, dress silly, and murder pumpkins for his own enjoyment — anyone who doesn’t approve can just take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.
I have always nurtured my inner-child… spoiled him to the point of being a brat. He stopped coming around for a while, but has been visiting with increasing frequency the last two years. I’ve missed him so much.
Now if you don’t mind, there is an 8-year-old in my head who is giggling at fart jokes, and he needs to have his espresso topped off.
I hope I catch some of that energy one day . . .
Dude, I’m realizing that there are a lot of pockets of my brain that are still recovering… and I thought I was mostly back to normal. I lost enthusiasm for a number of things that I didn’t realize I hadn’t gotten back — it’s almost like my subconscious was thinking “well, why bother… you’re just going to lose it all again”.
But — and here’s the important thing — it’s not the having that’s the goal, it’s the doing. The joy of doing and creating is so much more rewarding than the end product. I’ve been keeping that in mind, and it’s honestly helped me readjust my attitude, and helping me feel like my old self again.