The mother of a friend has died. This is the first story you read this morning, one day shy of the third month anniversary of his death. Your heart goes out to her. She’s half your age, but twice your strength, but this you feel for her. You want to hug her, for her, for you, for her mother, for your father.

You write this as you hide in your room as the party looms. That you call this “my room,” as if you were still six or ten or fifteen, not “my office” is a story for another time, but undergirds this. You did not want to have this party, thought that your feelings on the matter were heard, might be respected, but yet here you are. You spent the whole day cleaning for this party you did not want. You fixed your hair and face on a weekend for a party you did not want. Now, you must swallow your resentment, sidestep passive aggression, hide the evidence of crying, and erect a jolly façade. This requires alcohol, and you are becoming a drunk.

Halloween allows an outlet, especially at someone else’s party. Thanksgiving involved people who shared your grief. Christmas and you are more alone than when you spent that one in your own apartment, watching movies and drinking pina coladas. That time, you chose your solitude, and enjoyed it; but solitude and this loneliness share nothing but the presumption of being alone.

You hear the guests arrive. You search for that space in yourself — that actress who can pretend that all is well. If you do not, there will be disappointment, friction, conflict, that costs you so much to avoid but costs more to engage. You put on your face. You put it on multiple times before it sticks, and then only tenuously.

The evening grows more excruciating by the minute. You are still the spectre, too tired to put on a convincing performance, downing a whole bottle of Prosecco within an hour, silently praying to whatever spirit might listen that this will end soon. But everyone is having a good time. You must not spoil it. You must not let this flood of anger and grief and resentment that this damn party is happening at all spill out of your mouth and flood the room with bile that no one deserves. You just want to be alone.

Finally, you disappear. You slip away. To the bathroom, but really to the bedroom. You change into your pajamas and curl into bed. Yes, this is rude, you know. You didn’t want this party.  You are shocked that anyone thinks this party is a good idea, that anyone asked to have it, that anyone thought that you would enjoy it. Only one person suspects that you are upset, and you want to cry at the sympathy.  You comfort yourself in this dark bubble as the party continues, able to pull your sadness around you like a blanket, and sleep.