Here we are in the middle of the holiday season. A lot of us are back at work for the few days between the gift giving festivities and the New Year, New Me, resolutions that will last days, if not just hours, and it’s got that strange vibe of no-one wanting to actually do anything but, with everyone going through the motions nonetheless. Alongside everything hangs that unspoken feeling that it would be rude to actually achieve anything while a good chunk of the planet over-eats and binge watches Netflix in their new PJs.

It’s my second Christmas in the U.S. with the first having been spent exclusively with my ex-wife. This year I’m single, working, and now know more than one American, thankfully. I had a nice Christmas Day with a friend and his family, sharing booze and stories of the differences between my old home and my new one.

I’ve been asked a few times lately how Scotland celebrates Christmas and I keep having to say it’s really no different from here in the heart of America. It’s just endless weeks of spending every spare cent (and not spare) on things that you think will either put a smile on someone’s face or at least look as though it wasn’t a last minute gas station buy. Across the pond we do the same things, spend money, overeat, watch TV, spend time with loved ones, wish we had more time off work, and forget to buy batteries for the kids new toys – then hide the batteries of the really annoying toys. Oh, and we hunt haggis in the morning and feed them to Nessie in the afternoon to a soundtrack of The Proclaimers before watching Braveheart until we’re hoarse from shouting Freedom! It’s true, honestly.

The holiday season for me is never an easy time. I don’t have a big family, and most have been gone permanently from my life for the past couple of decades. Being a loner and a multiple-divorcee, also means I’ve spent quite a few Christmases sitting in front of the TV on my own watching The Sound of Music and munching on a huge mound of chocolate I had bought just in case there was anyone to share it with (Yes, The Sound of Music is a Christmas movie in the UK, just like Die Hard). Through the years both my children spent Christmas with their moms, and in the twenty-eight years of being a parent I’ve had my children with me on four Christmas mornings for present opening (all of those while I hadn’t yet become the ex). A lot of that is my fault. That has meant it is difficult for me to get excited about the big fat guy coming down the chimney as Christmas is all about the kids. Seeing the nervous excitement in the days leading up to it, getting the cookies and milk out, maybe even putting out some fake “snowy” boot-prints on the living room rug is what it’s really all about. When you know that you should be doing that but can’t, it takes a huge amount of the joy away.

These past two years I’ve had a granddaughter to miss too. I wish I could have shared the moments when her wee face lit up on seeing piles of boxes left by Santa but, I’m three and a half thousand miles away instead. Again that’s my fault, I made the choice to move to another continent and miss out on another generation of my bloodline being delighted by the magic of Christmas. I would probably spoil it anyway by letting my OCD kick in and constantly be shoveling up the discarded paper and bows before they hit the floor.

I’m used to being on my own at this time of year when most folk are moaning or stressing about sharing the little time off work they have with family they rarely see. I both miss it, and don’t miss it. I remember that stress, the anxiety of spending a day with parents, siblings, and more who would all be taking passive aggressive shots at each other (in a time when no-one knew what passive aggressive meant) and wishing it was the twenty-sixth already. I remember my dad and big brothers having to borrow tables and chairs from the church to allow us to seat all the grandparents, aunts and uncles in our tiny living room. I recall the cooked for hours sprouts, the dry turkey, the well-done roast beef that had to be drowned in gravy to be chewable, and the deep layered trifle that needed a huge silver spoon to scoop out squelching portions. However, all that had to wait on the habitual reverence when at three o’clock we all stopped talking to watch the Queen’s speech on the telly – even though it was hard to see the huge 21-inch bulbous tube behind all the borrowed furniture, paper tablecloths, assorted relatives, and Christmas crackers. It was a simpler time when my small hometown seemed endless and my brothers were marrying girls that lived within a stone’s throw, dad painted his tires black each weekend between alcoholic episodes, and mom wasn’t quite a cancer ridden shell yet. I miss it.

On a couple of occasions through the years I’ve been the hostess-with-the-mostest, I enjoy that in a frantic, sweaty way and at Christmas time I sometimes hanker for the opportunity to squeeze extra tables into a tiny room, muster up enough wine glasses, juggle the cooking times, and decide who should end up on the short seat that means their plate will be at the same level as their forehead. I haven’t had that chance for a very long time and don’t see that changing any time soon. I miss the opportunity.

So, instead I’ve spent this holiday season in the same way I’ve grown accustomed to – keeping my head down, buying presents for a few people that mean something to me, and eating chocolate that I don’t really like but that we all buy because it comes in festive packaging. I enjoyed my surprise invite to Christmas dinner this year. I chatted to nice people, had good food, done just right but which my mom would have said was still capable of mooing before throwing it in a hot oven for another four hours until it was the proper shade of grey. I also sampled a few deep glasses of bourbon that went down well – that is always a bonus. I was grateful for that day, and grateful to the people who allowed the stranger from across the water to join them on their special day. I thank them again.

I have a party to go to on New Year’s Eve where I won’t know most of the folk and I’ll spend all night explaining that I’m wearing a kilt and not a skirt, that a sporran isn’t a purse, and that Scotland owns the patent to Hogmanay just like most of the good things in this world ;). I’ll then need to explain what Hogmanay is and that when they start singing Auld Lang Syne that they’re singing a Scottish song. I’ll be told by half of them that they’re Scottish (they’re not), be expected to know all their distant clan connections (I won’t), and be asked what my favorite whisky is while I sip at some Jim Beam. I’ll also explain that most Scots hate the term Scotch (it’s derogatory), Scotch eggs are English, and Scotch tape is one of the few things we didn’t invent. It’ll be fun, I’ll enjoy the chat, the company, and the hours passing by without the usual feeling of being a misfit loner – even if I am one.

The following morning I’ll be back in my own apartment eating the last of the festive chocolate, watching Star Trek reruns (why hasn’t a Scot played Scottie yet?) and finding ways to procrastinate rather than paint or write. And, at some point there will be the melancholy moments, the moments when I wish I had family close by, wish I had one of my many exes sitting next to me irritating me with their flaws (I’m flawless obviously), and wondering if I’ll make it through another week without… well without wondering some shit.

I’m a loner. It’s my personality but, I’m more an extroverted introvert. I like to be at the party, I like to socialize, I like to have company but like many people I dread the thought of doing those things too. I don’t want the attention that I crave. Don’t want the intrusion into my loneliness. Don’t want the depressing seclusion shattered by constant companionship. Yet, I do. Yet I really don’t. Yet I do.

Christmas is the epitome of all the holidays that people love to hate without owning up to it. It’s the epicenter of joy and sadness. We celebrate whatever is relevant to each of us and share that with whoever we can, whoever allows us in, whoever is still left. Some of us do it a lot on our own and stick our heads above the parapets occasionally to be shot in the face with some tinsel and a turkey leg. Us loners are not all bah humbug, we still smile at kids with wonder in their eyes but, we also grin in relief at the exasperated parents hauling mountains of junk through the cash registers. I love Christmas though I hate the way I spend it most years. I long for some version of my childhood memories of waiting on aunts and uncles turning up at the door, the fright of a cracker snapping as I nearly fall off my seat into my papa’s lap, the surprise of opening boxes with no clue as to what’s inside, and just all the lashings of magic. Adult lives lack magic sadly, and in the brief moments when they do it normally involves a child. I want those first few moments of wandering half asleep through to the living room to find my own pile of toys or, in those later years seeing a toddling child explode in delight that Santa has been in the night.

Christmas can be a lonely and depressing time for those of us that are single, or far away from family and friends. That’s not a cry for sympathy it’s just a fact and it’s one that is self-inflicted or, is purely circumstantial so, we don’t want or need that sympathy. I’d rather feel lonely for a week because I’m on my own than feel alone in a relationship fifty-two weeks of the year just so I have someone to sit across from while I eat turkey wearing novelty socks that I hate. I at least get to be myself on these festive days. I don’t need to pretend like the millions of women who wonder if they’ll get through the day without a black eye. The millions of spouses silently batting away the snide remarks from the in-laws who hate them for no reason. The millions of kids living a lie because they can’t tell their parents they’d rather have a pair of Doc Martins than the Hello Kitty nightie or, really wanted that little tight dress in Kohl’s window rather than a new football jock-strap. Those people are lonely every day and Christmas brings them no joy, just more pressure to conform or belittle themselves for the sake of others, the sake of not spoiling the fun for everyone else while they die inside.

Lots of people have helped me in this past year, and in this past week. My needs have been plain to see. My isolation apparent. Being alone is easy to see and I’m thankful that those people around me have reached out to help me, give me a few hours away from the seclusion when it was needed (remember some of us hate constant company). What I’d ask is that you all look around the overflowing table or the crowded room strewn in ripped wrapping paper and look into the eyes of those beside you. Look for the loneliness in the crowd. Look for the person who just needs a hand to hold or an understanding ear. The person surrounded by family and friends who can’t actually be themselves. A kind word or welcome touch from you may be enough to get them through this time of year, may be enough to make sure they are still around this time next year when they can be the person they want to be. Bring people into your fold, extend your family, show kindness to the stranger but, most of all, know, understand, and accept those already close to you. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Happy Holidays. Share the love.