The first time I spent Christmas alone, I discovered something I’d never expected

On December 24 last year, I was folding clothes at a shop on Chapel Street, and for the first time in my 24 years, secretly hoping Christmas Day would not arrive.

In February, my girlfriend and I had moved from Adelaide (the City of Churches) to Melbourne. We had broken up in August, and by October, I had moved into my new home in Fitzroy. We had gone “no contact,” and I blocked her on all social media apps. Around this time, I had secured a new job on Chapel Street, working for a store that could sell clothes at 70 per cent off and still make significant profit.

Spending Christmas alone can be a difficult experience.Credit: Istock

My parents had been calling, asking when I was to return from Melbourne to Adelaide for Christmas, as had always been the case in my rather short life. But because I had just started the job, I had to work on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day so couldn’t make it home.

At this point in my life, I was severely depressed. My grandmother had recently passed away, my ex-girlfriend was not talking to me and my two best friends had fallen in love with one another. I was miserable.

Looking back at my diary, I wrote: “It’d be funny, if it weren’t so pathetic.”

So, it was Christmas Eve and I was alone. I locked the shop doors, received a text message from my boss thanking me for my efforts, and drove home, where I had Tim Burton’s Batman Returns waiting for me on Netflix.

The spire of St Mark’s Church in Fitzroy.Credit: Nine

It was 6.30pm, and on this particular Christmas Eve, I was just not feeling the film. I looked out my open window and saw groups of people walking towards a nearby church, St Mark’s, on George Street. I had never gone to “midnight Mass”, but I recall my zia and zio doing it when I was younger, and I was intrigued by the concept. On a whim, I grabbed a jacket, threw on some tracksuit pants and headed to the church.

When I arrived, I discovered that the ceremony I was looking to attend did not actually begin until 9.30pm. It was 7.15pm. I sat at the back so that if I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t make a scene. But something happened. Against my better judgment, I decided to stay for a bit. People sang hymns. A kid played the violin. And then the proper ceremony began, and the priest came out. He immediately blessed everyone, and after 15 minutes, I knew I was not going to leave until the entire thing was over.

I was sitting next to an elderly man who, like me, had arrived alone. He was wearing a navy-coloured jumper and offered me his pamphlet featuring the lyrics to O Holy Night. We sang together. During the priest’s sermon, he mentioned something that has stuck with me. It almost felt as if it were targeted directly at me.

“This evening, we may have people here who came alone. Who are away from family. Who have been through a lot this year. We open our doors to all people and religions for the simple purpose of making sure people know they are not truly alone.”

I remember crying when the priest asked everyone to turn to the person next to them and offer a sign of peace. I was bombarded by people around me, strangers, people I have not seen since, being kind and offering me thanks. For what? Existing? Being there? Being alone? None of that mattered to them – they were just good people, doing a good thing for someone who, at that time, really needed it. I stayed in that church until midnight, when more hymns were sung, more kids played the violin and champagne was brought out to celebrate the true beginning of Christmas.

I had dreaded that Christmas. I hated the thought of being away from my family during this time. And yet, I did something that I never would have. I spent Christmas with more people than ever before. Which, being someone from an Italian background, is quite the statement.

I will be returning to Adelaide this Christmas. I’ll be around my family. I have already bought everyone’s presents. However, what I will push upon my family this year is the opportunity to go to a church on Christmas Eve and offer someone, like me, who was dreading Christmas Day, a chance to see that they are not as alone as they may think. If you have the opportunity to do the same thing, I would hope you do too.

Roby D’Ottavi is a Melbourne writer/director.

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