Holiday Cheer Is a Drug

On dopamine crashes, January anxiety, and the madness hiding beneath the lights

The holidays are supposed to feel joyful. For some of us, they feel like pressure—compressed into a few loud weeks. This poem lives inside that compression.

Day 11 of 100 — a daily poetry practice.
Prompt: write a poem about madness using dashes and fractured lines.

Christmas. New Year. Birthday.

Stomach churning.
Acid reflux —
already rising.

That’s just the end of another year —

If you’re feeling like you are not
taking action —

your ego insists:  
YOU. ARE. FINE!

It has you where it wants you—
controlling, like a jealous spouse.

BLARING:

How much weight did you lose?
How much did you save?
What are your goals for next year?

Overwhelm.

I’m dreaming of a —white noise — Christmas,
just like the ones I used to know.

Christmas candy coats the madness.
You can’t help but overdose—

THE LIGHTS. MUSIC ON LOOP.
Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…

All I want for Christmas is YOOOOOOOO!!!
ENDLESS MEN IN SANTA SUITS.

AND THAT’s – when you start to crash.
HIT rock bottom.
RUN dry.

Then New Year hits you smack dab in the face –
cold and crisp.

Capricorns have it the worst—
or maybe that’s just me talking.

A Christmas, and then a birthday —
right after the new year.

CHRISTMAS-BIRTHDAY presents.
BIRTHDAY – New Year presence.

No pause.
No margin.

Just the perfect trinity—
enough to drive me mad.

© 2025 Carla Monroy
Part of the 100-Day Poetry Project

Is it over yet?

We’re told this is the most wonderful time of year – and in many ways it is. But the indulgence comes at a cost. We let ourselves go, chase the feeling, and end up hung over on dopamine. By the time January 4th arrives, the holi-daze wears off and the crash sets in.

It is also a season of reckoning. We wrap up one year and brace for the next. When we’re young, time feels endless. Somewhere in adulthood that illusion breaks. Time becomes finite – and intention stops being optional.  

When Festivity Becomes a Drug

Madness, for me, looks like a warped Christmas – one where festivity becomes a drug. We do everything to chase it. We overdose on the jolly, until we crash hard, and then wake up in a withdrawal. The poem mirrors that cycle: the high, the noise, the inevitable comedown.

The music loops. The lights blur. It feels like a Tim Burton nightmare. The hoopla distracts us from whatever we’re avoiding. There’s always something beneath the surface – even when we’re busy pretending we’re fine.

A Birthday After New Years Is a Reckoning

Every year, I face the perfect trinity: Christmas, New Year, and a birthday – all wrapped neatly with a bow all within a two-week time frame. What once felt celebratory now feels interrogative. Each year asks the same questions: Where are you? What have you done? Where are you going?

This perfect trinity forces measurement. And measurement breed’s discomfort. But it also creates clarity – the kind that doesn’t let you hide from what you’ve been postponing.

Madness Isn’t Chaos – It’s Pressure Without Release

This piece is part of an ongoing exploration of madness, time, and identity. Showing up — especially when it’s uncomfortable — is its own form of progress. More poetry is coming.

What kind of madness shows up in your life? Is it the holidays, the new year — or some other moment that forces you to take stock? Please comment below. If this piece drew you into mine, you’re already part of it.