12/22/2011 We celebrate Hanukkah—well, we used to. This year everything feels strange for me. The way I would explain it is I’ve been blindfolded and twirled for five full minutes then released. Now I’m utterly disoriented and have to carry on as if floor isn’t do-si-do-ing beneath me. I miss my children and the candlelighting and the gift-giving and the latke-making and the card-writing. I know that they had to grow up eventually, but I just didn’t think it would happen so soon and that the emptiness would be so . . . concave. I literally don’t know what to do with myself. I dash home for that peace and quiet at the end of the day, and am pacing and coming unglued within a half hour.

I could keep myself busy with “stuff,” but my heart’s not in it. I haven’t gone to any girls’ nights or happy hours because I just don’t want to. They don’t sound fun or productive and I make all kinds of excuses for not participating. I’ve even blown off my boyfriend all week. I don’t really think I’m falling into a depression, though I know isolating is a sign, but I think this is slightly different. It’s not just organic, it’s situational. Perhaps it’s exacerbated by the coming of the holidays . . . and the fact that Hanukkah is eight looooong nights.

My older daughter has been great and texts me to wish me Happy Hanukkah, but my younger one, the subject of this blog, has been distant and crabby and unresponsive. She’s refusing to take her medication and this is all making the holiday even more unbearable. I don’t miss her mishegos, but I miss my family—all I’ve known for 20 years.

Well, there’s always the new year. I’ll plan my resolutions well, starting with “stop feeling sorry for myself.”