Jamie Berube

All too often, we find ourselves stuttering to justify or explain to other people how we could possibly not want to do the thing you are supposed to do after you get married.

I didn’t want to be seen as someone who heard voices and shouted demented things from behind a door in a hospital for “crazy people.” And for me, that was what I thought it looked like to be mentally ill.

I have a mental illness, I thought to myself. How will I tell my husband? Will he still love me? What about my friends? Would they even believe me?

I remember many New Year’s Eve celebrations from years past in which a part of the party was stuffing my face with as many Kit Kat bars and Cool Ranch Doritos and cupcakes as I possibly could.

At 26, I have no clue what I want in certain areas of my life. I’ve kind of given up on it. All I need to know is where my foot will land with the next step I take.

The human experience is messy. Every single person who has ever lived has has snot run down their nose. The process by which we enter the world is extremely gross and painful. Not even Jesus was immune to farting.

Maybe I can get to a place where my heart is light during the holidays. It likely won’t happen if I am too preoccupied living in a fantasy, though, and scouring Pinterest for ideas and ways to make it prettier.