You don’t have to enjoy Christmas, you really don’t. Once you grasp that, it’s liberating. Behind the blitz of tat, food and the fiction of universally happy families, there are millions of us struggling to cope with ordinary life who want the whole damn circus to disappear.
The last thing we need is other people’s expectation of jolly sleigh bells projected onto us. I used to be guilty of this. I remember the year my mother stashed her incoming Christmas cards in a pile instead of displaying them. I discovered she hadn’t sent any either, a strong ritual abandoned. She said she couldn’t be bothered.
At the time I felt dismayed. I simply didn’t get it. Now, I completely understand. I can’t be bothered either.
Obviously, very needy causes exist and this is their season to shine: the homeless, the poor, the domestically abused. Various crisis charities perform emotional blackmail on their behalf, for abandoned dogs and lame donkeys too, and plenty of good-hearted people donate to alleviate their guilt. And that’s all perfectly fine.
Unpaid carers can suffer during the festive season, crushed by the tyranny of celebration, by loneliness, poignant memories and lack of support
But there’s another slice of society, larger yet more invisible, this one with zero sentimental pulling power for charities – and they’re the families looking after loved ones with dementia. Unpaid carers – and I’m one of them – can suffer during the festive season, crushed by the tyranny of celebration, by loneliness, poignant memories and often, lack of support. We’re not in crisis but we juggle potential crises every day. We are in our own way as trapped as the homeless.
This so-called silent army is a cohort heading for six million strong, holding households together and saving the state billions of pounds. Even if we had charitable appeal, what possible good would money do at this stage?
Respite in a care home for proud, angry individuals who refuse to leave familiar surroundings? An old folks’ lunch to patronise us? Apologies, if I sound sour and beaten down; it’s because, like so many in this situation, I live on the edge of cracking up. (Which of course isn’t an option.)
You get up, you struggle with your own physical issues, you fetch and carry, you prepare food that is rejected, hot drinks that go undrunk, you clean lavatories, you prompt, you talk slowly and loudly, you seek engaging TV shows, you spend a good bit of time feeling murderous, an equal amount of time feeling guilty, you may have a secret cry, and then you go to bed, and hope to be interrupted only two or three times through the night.
Come 25 December, on top of all that, you’re expected to have chosen and wrapped thoughtful presents – what do you get someone with dementia? – and cooked turkey and trimmings and all the rest of the nonsense and to be sweet and smiley and a single-handed cheerleader? Aye right, as the Scots say pungently. Aye right.
I do not mean to be a killjoy – I wish everyone a lovely, peaceful day – but the only way for me to cope is to disregard it (apart from chocolate; copious amounts of chocolate). Last year, I downsized to a turkey crown; even that nearly killed me. Never again. This year my son can’t be here, so it’s chicken stew. I am fully liberated.
My ultimate fantasy is of escape. Some good friends are deserting children, in-laws, grandchildren, and heading off to somewhere in Yorkshire. Oh, to go and stay in an anonymous hotel with a view, a good book and nice food – all food I don’t have to prepare is nice – and zero responsibilities. What absolute, unattainable bliss.
Melanie Reid is tetraplegic after breaking her neck and back in a riding accident in April 2010
Carers UK is one of many organisations that provide unpaid carers with support and advice
Photograph by Jacky Chapman / Alamy