The "F" Word

   Years ago while still married to a version of a man I invented, who didn't really exist, holidays were awful events. I would be in tears at some point. It did not matter be it a birthday or Christmas, the tears were sure to appear. An uninvited guest, they would lurk right at the brink of falling, coloring my day in heartache. My wasband went out of his way to bring them on. He couldn't seem to help himself. Or rather, he refused to try and control his own anxiety and took it out on those who loved him. I had always loved this time of year. I was captivated by the promise of what was to come.  I think that somehow, made him worse. I would start playing Christmas music Halloween night and I kept it going through Christmas night. I loved the packages and boxes, ribbons and bows were always magical to me. I have very few memories of Christmas growing up. Or really any holiday. My parents were not the holiday kind of people. When we were very young and lived near some of my mother's sisters we would spend the day with them. It was a trying ordeal. The sisters would fight and be catty. Each of them worried more about the behavior of the other's children and not at all interested in their own brood. This created tension, as first one child and then another would be called out for something or nothing. An attempt for each sister to show the other's parenting skills were not up to par.

  We kids just tried to stay out of the way. Presents were compared and I remember so clearly at the age of five my aunt taking away one of my gifts because her daughter had not received the same one. She put it high on the mantel promising I could have it before I went home. Well being just five, of course, I was crushed and later forgot that special toy behind. I woke up the next morning and realized that it was gone forever. Mourning that Makeup Barbie Doll as if it was a lifelong friend. I knew it was gone. And indeed it was. When I asked my aunt for it on our next visit, she couldn't find it. The one item my parents had chosen to bestow on me and it had been taken away from me. I would come to see presents or the lack of them as a measure of how much I was or was not loved. Birthdays were incredibly painful. Any time that gifts were to be given I tried to shore up my feelings. Raise my armor high. Because chances were very good that there would be nothing for me. My parents just did not believe in spending money on such things. And so when I married, of course, I chose people who continued that long line of pain that comes from the realization that you were not important enough for a special token of love. I tried to bury the hurt in creating the perfect events for my children. I loved to make their birthday special, would go into debt to make sure that they got whatever they wanted.

  I'd cook for days happily. Flitting around in a world held together with hope and denial in equal parts. I knew I could have that dream life. The one where I was loved and needed. Where my husband was kind and there was plenty to go around. A place in which I would be enough. Of course, it invariably fell apart. I'd plan and plot, working on making that perfect Hallmark holiday and reality would break through all my carefully constructed pretend world. My husband would forget to get me anything. Or even worse, run to the grocery store and bring back random cheap gifts. A plastic jug of milky bubble bath that smelled odd and refused to produce suds. Or a pair of discount slippers which were three sizes too big. He would hand me the plastic bag that they came in and walk away. That was his idea of Christmas or birthdays. I decided that I would much rather have his words, so I started asking for just a card and a few thoughts. Again, it was too much to ask for. And I ended up feeling forgotten. My children, however, were marvelous gift givers. I got breakfasts in bed and the most wonderful handwritten cards and notes. I kept them all and when times are hard when days are just too long I reread them. Pulling the love I craved from constructed from colorful craft paper with glitter and ribbons. They'd remind me of what was important and that the best gifts come from the heart, not from any store.

  In my twenties, I still tried to maintain the semblance of a normal family by going to my mother's or sisters for brunches and dinners. It was horrid. I would be filled with anxiety, walking on eggshells. There would be the inevitable arguments and I would feel that I barely escaped unscathed. I was so determined that I was not going to be treated poorly. I had had enough bullying and mean remarks, I went looking for excuses to cut down others with my words. I brought a great supply of ammunition for the war that was sure to take place. One of my sisters had been married to a very mean man. I can't do his capacity to be cruel justice here. He would call my sister fat, lazy, stupid and ugly and I would watch her bow her head and I trembled in my rage. I'd take a long swing at him with my own weapon of choice. I would remind him he was unemployed and also fat. My sister had just had a baby. What was his excuse? No one else ever intervened on her behave. It was as if we were living a continuation of our broken childhood. My father had been replaced by an equally abusive person and again no one seemed willing to remind this abuser that his behavior was not to be tolerated. I would get blamed for stepping in. For standing up to him and for not just ignoring it. But I couldn't. I would look at my sister, older than me, yet not, looking at the floor. Trying to hide the tears that flowed down her cheeks. I just couldn't stay silent. My children had instilled in me the need to protect others. The need to avenge those who couldn't defend themselves. It made me the warrior I became. And there always seemed to be a battle raging. After just such a run,  while warming the car to leave my oldest sister's house my son asked me why we came to family get-togethers at all. We were all miserable and could find no joy in the day spent in a house full of strangers who just happened to come from the same gene pool. I couldn't give him a good answer. I didn't know why we had to do these things. That settled it. We made a pact, my children and I. We would not come back. We would make our own special days. We made our own traditions. Special days were spent with those we loved and who loved us in return. When my son was six or seven he started binging me a card and KitKat for every special day. Now, at 24 the Kitkat is larger and the card is store bought. I treasure them greatly. There is something about this man who is still so much my child handing me chocolate and an envelop that says simply "Mom" with a heart that touches my soul.

  I thought, back in those years of too few dollars, too many expectations that money would cure my sadness. If I could just buy fancier things or better food then all would be well. I was oh so wrong. It's not the size of the tree or the presents under it that matter. No, it's the love around it that matters. Who we spend our time with and what we chose to say. That is what makes the holiday season special. And family, that most dreaded "f" word, in whom you chose to include into your life. Whether they are thereby marriage or birth, friendship or neighbors they can all be part of your family. I pick and choose now. And I have never been happier. I wish for you peace and happiness this holiday season. And if like me, you are filled with apprehension at the very idea of dinner with your family, change that. You have the power and control, you decide what your world looks like.