This Grinch’s Confession: Self-Care is a Lie

I always wear a mask, but nobody sees it. 

It’s not a physical thing, of course, but the performance I put on every time I have to talk to someone on the phone, respond to a text, or go out in public. It’s the bright tone I maintain while explaining the same process for the fifth time, or the practiced patience I use when deflecting a question about the next funding modification.

Lately, the energy required to keep this mask on has become an obscene cost. I am spiraling. The crushing work overload, the gnawing anxiety about my sweet, gimpy Quinn, and the arrival of the holidays—that dark, grief-stained window from November 1st to January 1st—have me in a chokehold.

I’m not suicidal, so don’t bother sending the crisis resources. It’s just the raw, numbing truth that I really just don’t give a single damn about anything right now. But gods help me if I let that slip. I’m forced to pretend to care, and that, more than anything, is why I’m so angry.

The Seasonal Sickness

This particular brand of emotional exhaustion isn’t new. It’s seasonal, predictable, and soul-crushing. Every year, like clockwork, November 1st flips a switch, and the world demands I be happy exactly when I have the least capacity for it. This is two months of mandated cheer piled on top of deep, personal grief.

It started the year Dad died, back in 2010. Christmas stopped being something I tolerated and became something I actively hated. Then, Kevin was added to the mix. Now, the season is less about presents and more about the absolute, gaping absence of people I desperately miss.

My birthday was two days ago. It wasn’t just my birthday; it was the second anniversary of Kevin’s passing. The day is now a double-barreled shotgun of grief.

The Anniversary Punch

Kevin was the one who always made sure my birthday was special. We had these huge trips—a long weekend in DC visiting the African American History Museum, or that trip to New Orleans for the WWII Museum. That New Orleans memory is a perfect summation of my life: the great thing was still ruined by his drinking. He was wasted more than he was sober, and I ended up going out alone, missing the karaoke I wanted to sing, and just feeling disappointed. 

Now, my birthday sucks as much as Christmas.

And the world’s response? A blanket email from my boss, a handful of prompted well-wishes, and nobody around. It just highlights that another year has gone by without him, and I’m expected to smile through it. 

Kevin’s husband, and my emotional anchor, is getting home tonight. He’s been forced to be “on” all week for a business trip. That means his own partner’s anniversary has been filed away. His inevitable crash from that exhaustion is going to happen over the weekend, right when we have a few things planned. We are at least looking forward to Greek Night tomorrow, so there’s one small thing we can both pretend to be genuinely excited about. 

I’m otherwise alone with this manufactured cheer, and I am sick of it. I didn’t even put up my lights this year. I’m not just channeling the Grinch. I’ve bought the cave and the tiny dog (or three, in my case). I’ve adopted the zero-tolerance policy.

The Physical and Chemical Toll: My Body, The Saboteur

Look, some of this rage is aimed squarely at myself, at this absolutely useless machine I’m driving. It’s too damn easy for people to say, “Just change your attitude,” but I’m wrestling with a physical reality that never, ever shuts up: New Daily Persistent Headache with Migraine without aura.

I’ve been injecting Emgality once a month and popping Ubrelvy when things get bad since October. And yeah, part of my current zero-interest phase is because I haven’t done the research, and I’m mad that I even have to. 

Is this profound apathy just grief? Is it just the seasonal crap? Or are these chemicals I’m injecting to stop the pain actively killing whatever small joy I had left? I don’t know, and honestly, finding the energy to go down that medical rabbit hole right now just makes me even more furious.

My physical existence is a joke. The pain in my head and neck radiates down to my lower back. My grand exercise plan is walking up and down stairs and using an Inch-inerator shake plate while I try to distract myself with video games—and even that gives up after a few minutes.

When simply existing feels like running a marathon uphill, how the hell am I supposed to find the emotional gas to perform basic holiday cheer? I’m tired of being fat, I’m tired of the constant goddamn pain, and I’m furious that the world expects me to act “on” when I’m running on fumes.

Stop Trying to Fix Me

This is it. This is the question that sends my anxiety and my sheer, blinding fury through the damn roof: “What are you doing for self-care?”

My therapist asks it because that’s her job. Everyone else asks it because they think a nice bath, a gratitude list, or some other Pinterest-approved nonsense will magically rewind two years of grief, chronic pain, and corporate overload.

Let me be clear: I have zero capacity left. 

My novel?

Gone by the wayside. (Honestly, I almost didn’t write this for the blog, but I had to get this out, so here you go.) The thought of adding any more “activities”—even relaxing ones—to my life makes me want to pull the covers over my head and hibernate until spring.

I don’t owe anyone a solution. I don’t owe you a self-help strategy. My self-care right now is the deliberate, defiant act of refusing to care. 

It’s leaving the damn lights in the box and accepting that I am not a project that needs fixing. I am not signing up for another failure by trying to be a wellness poster child right now. Stop asking what I am doing to take care of myself. I am surviving. That is enough.

The December Lie 

I am choosing not to fix this feeling right now. I am choosing to sit in the quiet, the grief, and the glorious apathy of being a Grinch. And if my refusal to participate, if this zero-fucks attitude, the anger, and the lack of self-care ruins your perfect holiday narrative, then that discomfort is the exact truth you need to hear this season. I am done pretending. I am done trying.

That’s a very effective sign-off paragraph, but you’re right, it needs to be tailored to the emotional, non-bureaucratic theme of your current “Grinch” post. We should remove the “prior authorization” and “ransom” details and focus on emotional validation and shared struggle.

Here is the revised sign-off paragraph for your new post, “The Grinch’s Confession: Self-Care is a Lie”:

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Suppose this post resonated with you, whether you’re fighting your own battle with seasonal sadness, facing crippling emotional exhaustion, or just trying to survive chronic pain without crumbling. In that case, I encourage you to read the whole story. This series, “The Pain & the Protocol,” is about turning personal suffering into shared understanding. Catch up from the beginning to see how this fight started with a diagnosis, and be sure to share this post with anyone who needs to know that they are not alone in the struggle to simply exist. Click here to read the entire series: The Pain & The Protocol Blog