The MOST Depressing Time of the Year

As soon as the automatic doors open, I come face to face with a life size plastic Santa. I see him even before I see the CVS clerk, who greets me to let me know she is there, in case I was thinking of shoplifting. At least, that is why I assume they greet people as they walk in. Santa gives me a frozen look of judgment, his resting bitch face matching mine. I sigh and move past Santa and his faux fireplace and begin heading towards the pharmacy, which is my reason for shopping today. I’m here to pick up my sanity. It comes in two bottles with my name on them.

Right after Santa, I pass by the liquor aisle. In Arizona, they sell liquor EVERYWHERE. Seeing it near Santa makes me remember the times I bought my stepdad his favorite expensive scotch for Christmas, only to have him return it the next day for two cheap bottles. The many bottles of flammable exuberance also force me to think about how much I have punished my body for the last four decades while chasing happiness.

The table top Charlie Brown pencil dick Christmas tree with its one shiny ornament grabs my attention as I walk past it. It brings me back in time to sweeping up shiny red glittery fragments from the vinyl floor after my mother threw our four foot tall fake tree to the ground while screaming “MERRYFUCKINGCHRISTMAS!”

Just when I think I have escaped drugstore Whoville, the Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds perfume gift sets on the end of the cosmetic section bring me back to the Aventura Mall, shopping for my mom eleven days before Christmas, not knowing I was about to be thrown out of my home the next day. I get nauseated and sad even though I know that was thirty years ago.

I’m always surprised that Old Spice still exists, but there it is, close to the perfume. The Old Spice gift sets make me picture Rod opening one from eight-year-old me, smiling like it wasn’t the stereotypical 1970s father figure gift, pretending that he would not get drunk and beat my mom later. Pretending he would not start kissing me and touching me in a couple of years.

I finally make it to the pharmacy, wishing I had just used the drive-through. I stand in line behind a woman with new insurance, a savings card, and a lot of questions, of course. Finally, when it is my turn, I want to ask for valium and a shot of vodka, but that is frowned upon, even in jest. So, I give my name, date of birth, and credit card to the pharmacy tech, and grab my antidepressant cocktail, shoving both bottles in my huge purse with the mile long receipt as soon as she hands everything to me.

As I walk back towards the front, I avoid looking at the Old Spice and White Diamonds. I avert my gaze from the sad Christmas tree. I take a deep breath and keep myself from heading down booze lane and grabbing a bottle of Tito’s. I can’t avoid Santa, though. He is directly in my path to the door. I want to knock him over. Instead, I stop and take a quick picture because his mood seems to match mine, which is rare because all Santas usually have a permanent fake smile. He probably can’t wait for January 2, just like me.