Christmas Day 2006
I thought this entry would be fairly brief, but when I think about love and Christmas, and what I’ve discovered about where my feelings about the whole thing have come from, I have to go way back, because that’s where the seeds of experience were planted that persist to this day. I have been afraid and ashamed of what I feel about Christmas presents and the long-standing traditions my family has practiced.
But I couldn’t put why I felt that way into words until last week. I got a card from an old boyfriend whose family was very important to me. My mom died when I was 16, the same month I met ‘Sam.’ For the next four years, I spent part of every Christmas with Sam and his family and it was my first taste of a Christmas gift-opening experience I’d had outside of my own family’s. My memories led me to a startling awareness: I have been looking for love under the Christmas tree for as long as I can remember. And this search has always ended in quiet pain, disappointment, anger, resentment and sadness. The following is my journey through “why.”
LIFE WITH MOM
There’s no gentle way to put this. Mom was mentally ill, an alcoholic, abused prescription drugs, had a violent temper which she regularly, and unpredictably, took out on us four children, suffered episodes of wild manic phases always followed by lingering, severe depression, was totally narcissistic, self absorbed, and neglected us most of the time except for when she was beating us for some unforgiveable transgression, like lying, or not cleaning the kitchen just right, or laughing when she fumbled with her booze or cigarettes (I forgot to mention that she smoked at least three packs a day), or whining when we were forced to wait on her instead of getting to play with friends, or when we had to clean my brother’s room. The list of responsibilities I had to take on was endless. On top of that, I never knew which way the winds of her moods would blow. The only thing of which I could be certain was that no matter how fun she could be, rage was lurking close by; no matter how supportive she could be, total neglect, disgust, and disdain would always follow. Life was unspeakably difficult. But it was the only life I knew.
CHRISTMAS WITH MOM
Most of the time, it was magic, pure and simple. Christmas was the one time of the year that she focused on me. The gifts she got were those I dreamed about all year long. I tore into those gifts with passion and true excitement because I knew I would find proof of her love. It was the only time of the year that I felt safe to let the hope of love wash over me. She must have loved me to know my deepest wishes. It fortified me with the strength that comes from hope that I needed to get through the next year. No matter how bad things got, I could always count on the memory of Christmas to comfort me through even the roughest times. I became an expert at taking the ‘scraps’ of a present and turning it into a ‘feast’ of love that I so desperately needed and wanted. I did this because it’s all I had, and my very life depended on the hope of it being better than it actually was.
No wonder Christmas was scary and uncomfortable. Beneath the festivity of every holiday season lurked the same question, “Will I find love this year?”
CHRISTMAS AFTER MOM
My mom shot herself at the end of February in 1978. My dad remarried the same year, so my first Christmas without mom was the first Christmas with my stepmother. Everything changed. She was so nice and never angry and it was such a relief not to be perpetually vigilant for treacherous mood swings. She had two daughters close to my age, so they shared our Christmases, too. I hoped it might be great fun to share the holidays with a new family. Yet, even though there was no rage and violence, there was something that hurt almost as much: feeling invisible, and feeling like I was a burden. Though we tried mightily to make our blended family a happy one, it was awful. No one was happy, and my Christmas experience took on a different dimension of the same painful feelings.
A TYPICAL CHRISTMAS EVE EXPERIENCE FROM MY MEMORY
When it was finally time, we all descended on the den and staked out precious real estate wherever we could find it: on the floor, sofas, piano bench, hearth, wherever we fit (there were usually 13-18 of us, depending on who could get there). One of the younger children would be encouraged to begin passing out the presents (Have I described how many presents there were? Dozens and dozens and dozens.), but an adult quickly jumped in to ‘help’ so we wouldn’t all still be waiting for our presents when Santa arrived. While piles of presents grew around some, others waited for the first one to make its way to them. But we weren’t looking at our own piles (or lack thereof), we were all looking to see how big everyone else’s pile was. Finally, when all the presents had been passed out, the only thing you could hear in the room was the sounds of paper tearing and oohing and ahhing and calls across the room, “Hey Dad … Dad … DAD! Do you like it? That one is from me.” Or, “Stan … Stan … STAN!, thank you! I really like it. It’s perfect!” It is hard to understand how so many presents could take so little time to open and stash. Some of us were finished opening our gifts much faster than some others, so we tried to pretend that we enjoyed watching them open one gift after another, even though our hearts were breaking and the old familiar melancholy was settling in for a long winter’s stay. Topping the resentment and anger was the guilt of feeling resentful, hurt, and angry. After all, how greedy and selfish to wish for more! Even though it was crystal clear that some got many lavish gifts of what they really wanted, while others received only one or two token gifts that left much to be desired. You would think that those who got great gifts would be giddy with delight, but strangely, no one seemed to be happy at all. (In hindsight, I suspect that I wasn’t the only one looking for love under the Christmas tree and coming up empty-hearted.)
Despite the predictable pain, it never occurred to me to question why I continued to subject myself to this experience. This was my family, and I needed to believe that every year could be a fresh and happy new beginning of a more joy-filled and equitable Christmas for us all. It was only when I had children of my own and saw their hurt, even though they loved their family enough to not understand what it really meant for them. When I found myself trying to explain to my children why some of the other children got so much more than they did, a lightening bolt of protection hit me, and I was determined that they would not have to go through what I did. So, we stopped going for Christmas eve, and instead visited sometime near the holiday, but safely clear of the present-giving extravaganza that I knew was taking place. I could somehow endure the pain, but I could not bring myself to ask my children to go through that.
Not being there helped a lot, but the wounds were reopened when I thought about what was still happening, even though I wasn’t there to see it. But I was determined to get beyond the hurt. The stages of healing from this experience have been gradual, hard won, and real. First, I had a heart-to-heart talk with dad and asked him to make sure that his grandsons got gifts they really wanted. It was only a matter of asking me what they liked. I also asked if I could tell them exactly what I wanted in order to buffer myself from the disappointment of getting things I didn’t want. For years, I asked for the same thing: the exact brand of underwear, and the exact color, size and style. But this way of handling the gift-giving came with a big price tag. When I knew what I was getting, there was no surprise, and no enjoyment of the thoughtfulness that goes into knowing someone picked out a special gift with only me in mind. But I was just too afraid that a surprise gift would instead symbolize a lack of thought, that the gift had been purchased only to be checked off someone’s list. I built walls to protect my heart from the hurt, and buying for me proved very hard for those close to me. I was looking for love without expecting to find it. So, I didn’t, and it was miserable for us all. Then, as time passed and I worked on my attitude toward Christmas and my family, I discovered other ways to enjoy the season.
But even as recent as last night, my sister had to call and talk about her Christmas eve experience. She was laughing as she described the absurdity of the predictable imbalance of the present piles, but I could hear the heavy tears in her voice. It makes me cry to even type this because the thought spills out that we just don’t deserve to continue to feel so much pain around the holidays. Worse, I feel like there is nothing I can do to make her feel more loved. We look for love under that tree, but we come away hungry and hurt, discouraged and angry. Added to this mix is that I am ashamed of these negative feelings. And then I feel angry and sad that I have to feel shame on top of all of the other difficult feelings. Talk about a cheery holiday mix!
But one gift my challenged life has given me is indomitable perseverance. I will not give up on the healing. I know the pain is real, but so is the love. Thankfully, with effort, patience, and love for my family to sustain me, I am finally feeling healthier and more capable of expressing the genuine love I have for my family without subjecting myself to, or denying, the things that are so painful.
This also has helped: I choose to think about myself a little less, and instead to focus on the experience of others, to truly enjoy their delight. For receiving gifts, I don’t focus so much on the gift itself, but the effort, time, and thought that went into getting it. While I can’t say that I get happy or excited about Christmas, I feel a quiet joy, more contentment, and a grateful heart that I have a family that truly does love me and receives my love with open arms.
OTHER THINGS I’VE DISCOVERED ALONG THE WAY
I believe that those of us who have survived dangerous and deficient childhoods have something important and heartfelt to offer the world. For me, it is a deep compassion, a big heart, an ability to understand that every situation has at least two sides to consider, a ferocious resilience and determination, an abiding belief that the sun will shine again, and that tomorrow truly is a new day. I’ve also cultivated the art of forgiveness. For a long time, I withheld this gift because I thought that to forgive meant that I was saying that what was done to me was okay. I’ve learned that forgiveness is my way of living the truth that we are all doing the best we can with what we have, including me. I have more ease and freedom in my heart, in my body, and in my relationships.
I feel a little like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. I’ve been on a long, dangerous, lonely and difficult journey looking for love under the Christmas tree, only to find on the other side of survival and forgiveness that the gifts of love are all around me, and always have been. I now can see the gifts as symbols of care instead of clinging to a fragile hope that they will be the love I am so hungry for. I now recognize and appreciate the many ways people show love, and that I can embrace and soak my broken heart in these many forms of love. Actively appreciating the little things, every day, has led me to a dramatically different place that I feared I would end up. I am now living in a world that more lovingly holds my pain and my pleasure, and I see that every-day grace is a gift from God that allows me to give and receive love even in the presence of pain, and that I am a better person for all of this. And that finally, when I look under the Christmas tree, I see presents. And I feel love. The phrase, “the magic of the season,” is one I can now whole-heartedly embrace and enjoy.
I wish that same love, peace, contentment, freedom, and joy to you and those you love to carry you through this holiday season, and sustain you throughout the coming year.
