Well, the holiday season is here and, while I'm in better spirits this year versus last, I know that it won't be as merry as I'd like. But I'm getting there.

I have always loved Christmas. It has always been a happy time of year for friends and family, freshly cut Christmas trees, homemade baked goods, crackling fireplaces, warm apple cider and snow.

Whether John — my ex — and I would stay on the East Coast and have family visit or travel to the West Coast to visit them for Christmas, I would always take the time to decorate the home we once shared. I would put up a tree, decorate the house and bake cookies using recipes passed down from my grandmother. I wanted to recreate the holiday joy that I had always enjoyed growing up. And the idea of eventually having children and having Christmas in our home for years to come was so exciting.

All of that now seems worlds away, and yet it feels like just yesterday.

This will be my first Christmas in my apartment in Manhattan and the idea of decorating it for the holidays seems pointless. I'm not sure if having my apartment decorated would help get me into the Christmas spirit or would make me more depressed. I pass tree stands on the sidewalks and decorations for sale in the stores but I just can't get myself to buy any of it.

I also thought, or hoped, that I would get an early Christmas present this year — closure to the loose financial ends that I still have with my ex. No luck.

I guess I should just take comfort in the fact that this year is better than last year. Last year, I was still married but knew that my then-husband not only wanted a divorce, but was cheating on me. I spent the holidays alone with my parents and while I never once shed a tear in their presence, inside I was crushed.

I know that time heals all wounds but sometimes the time passes so slowly.