Illegal Foreign Object

I desperately wanted to commit to Christmas this year. I went all-in in a way I hadn’t been capable of for nine years. It was right after the holidays in 2014 that a previous relationship imploded. I certainly wasn’t blameless in our demise, but my world crumbled. For a time, I gave in to every vice, built my walls nice and high, cut myself off from almost everyone around me, and talked myself into the idea that loving someone else would only lead to more indescribable pain. And though there isn’t a direct link to this particular event and Christmas, there is enough emotional connective tissue there that it’s kept me from not only ’tising the season but dropping my guard and giving those around me the love and joy they deserve during this time of year.

I have worked hard this year to correct my behavior in this area. I believe it has a lot to do with my dad passing in November. Christmas was his favorite time of the year. I used to say he was a prick for the first 11 months out of the year, then won everyone back over in December. He never disagreed. Still, Christmas was his time. He looked like the stereotypical version of Santa Claus, and from December 1st until the calendar read “December 26th”, he donned his Santa hat and handed out candy and toys to almost every kid he saw. You don’t know true joy until you’ve seen the face of a child who believes with all their heart that they’re staring into the face of Santa Claus.

Dad and I used to go to the children’s hospital here in Costa Rica on Christmas Eve. I believe I went a half dozen times — he probably went at least a dozen. Dad heard that the only kids in the hospital on that night were the ones in the worst health, and that touched his heart. He never called ahead, and he never made an appointment — we just showed up with a giant bag full of toys and candy, my dad dressed in his Santa Claus suit (and black tennis shoes because arch support). The number of times a parent asked me if “Colacho” would hold their child for a picture because the doctors had told them they likely wouldn’t get another Christmas with their baby would break your heart. We always left the hospital in tears. We also left knowing we’d done something good for some folks who needed someone to just be kind to them.

When I moved back to the States, life became almost entirely about work, but I always tried to make Christmas special for those around me. I don’t know that it was always a success, but the effort was there. Then, everything fell apart (I fell apart), and I stopped trying to feel anything resembling the holiday spirit.

Honestly, this was the first Christmas in almost a decade that I didn’t have to steal away some quiet time to weep uncontrollably. This year was the first time I didn’t have to pull my shit together and fake it around family and friends.

I don’t feel as hurt as I used to feel. I can’t explain the shift — maybe I just stopped caring so much (if that makes any sense). A person can get so wrapped up in their trauma that they get comfortable in it. You don’t see any way out, so you learn to embrace the misery. But I don’t take negative things into my heart as deeply as I once did. I don’t get any on me anymore, and I’ve gotten a lot better at leaving a little in the bucket for me, which keeps me from getting overwhelmed. I don’t have as much time for others as I once had, but I think that’s healthy. I finally realized (and accepted) that I can’t fix you. It’s a full-time job trying to hold myself together.

Like I mentioned earlier, maybe my dad dying was the final puzzle piece. I hate to say it this way, but I’d be lying if I told you that caring for him over the last five years hasn’t been hell. It was a harrowing, stressful experience — I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. No longer allocating money for Dad’s monthly bills suddenly left me with a little extra this holiday season, and I decided to try to give my girl and our kid the best Christmas we’ve had since we became a family. I planned out the 24th and 25th and hoped I wouldn’t fall to pieces and disappoint them. Somewhere around the 20th, I began to descend into my head. Negative thoughts made their way in, wading around and making themselves comfortable. I went to sleep each night, hopeful that the holiday dread with which I had become so accustomed wouldn’t be at my bedside to greet me in the morning. Old trauma can be a bear — just when you think you got it licked, the bastard drops a perfectly placed paw across your shoulder blades. I worked through the negativity by giving myself quiet time each morning to meditate, breathe, and practice the mindfulness that has become so important to my emotional healing.

Through it all, I quietly worried that it would all blow up in our faces — that all my efforts to heal, to put away old bullshit would be in vain. We had a delicious meal on the night of the 24th, prepared entirely by my girl and our kid. Then, we watched the 1964 version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and the most recent Grinch flick. It was a nice evening, but in the back of my mind, I continued to think about my mood on the 25th. Then, yesterday rolled around. I woke around 4 AM (this is pretty common), excited to do something my mom and dad always did for my sister and me — stuff the stockings that hung over the mantle with goodies. My kid has become obsessed with spicy flavors, so I packed his stocking with assorted spicy barbecue and hot sauces (and enough candy to earn the ghost of Wilford Brimley a peg leg).

Then, I made coffee and cocoa, got everyone moving around the house, and (for the first time in years) handed out gifts to the people (and cats) I love. Their smiles were the best gift I could have received. It was a great day. The kitties got me white chocolate-covered Oreos, which was yet another reminder of my dad. He and I struggled financially in the early ’90s, but I always knew I could count on waking up on Christmas morning to a small box of those Oreos. 

I feel obliged to close by saying something to those of you scuffling your way through the holidays. I empathize with you deeply. For many years, I never felt more alone than I’d feel during Christmas. I was overwhelmed with sadness — miserable that I couldn’t feel what everyone else around me seemed to feel. For all I know, this might be a one-off for me. I might be knee-deep in the Christmas Blues next year (which is why I appreciate this year’s festivities). But I want to think I’ve gotten over the hump. Time will tell the tale, I suppose. In the meantime and the in-between time, I’ll try to keep my heart pried open and enjoy these mile markers as much as my madness allows.

Happy holidays, everyone.