It’s the most wonderful time of the year. At least it’s supposed to be.
I have lots to be grateful for, thankful for this year and in this season of my life. I have a partner who loves me and whom I love in return. A wonderful family of in-laws that are kind and generous with their time and support. Friends that have stayed at my side through thick and thin. And even after a scare back in March, I can say with confidence I still have my physical health.
But I think back to all those years ago in my childhood, when the happiest season was anything but. Hiding in my room while my parents argued. The pressure to ask for random toys, because what I truly wanted could not be wrapped in a box and bow. Only to be disappointed even further because (in my mind) my caregivers could not follow simple instructions, or were too poor because they spent the gift money on painkillers and booze. No parties to attend, no friends to revel with on New Year’s Eve. Many a Christmas Eve, Thanksgiving night, and early morning New Year’s Day spent scrolling on Tumblr and Archive of Our Own, because only fictional characters and strangers on the internet could comfort me through the empty hopes and false promises of resolutions masked behind glitter and garland, fake as plastic.
Don’t even get me started on the sensory overload. The shopping trips to the dying malls and dollar stores, wrapped in a dozen layers of suffocating heat to protect against the winter’s cold, even when climate change and puberty hormones meant December felt like May some days. The crowds of people rushing to get their purchases completed in time for Santa’s arrival, towering over child me and bumping, pushing, kicking their way to the shelves with my body as an impediment to be overcome in their harrowing quest for the right item at the right price to give their coworker during white elephant. Those damn fluorescent lives with their piercing white glow and irritating hum, a droning bass line accompaniment to the scratchy holiday records blasting on the intercoms. And the smell; the smell of sweat, desperation, money, cardboard, dusty shelves, worn carpets, smudged tiles, stressed workers, stressed shoppers, a stressed mother, a miasma of illness from seasonal flu and cold spread by coughing consumers ahead and behind me in line at the checkout register, and just a hint of warm vanilla sugar from the nearby Bath and Body Works samples.
I’m trying to reclaim this time of year. Find meaning, find joy. Prescribe new thoughts to old traditions and vice versa. Carve out happiness and gratitude where I can. Some days it is easier than others, but I think it’s possible. I cling to the possibilities like the saran wrap stuck on leftover dishes.
Maybe this can be the happiest season after all…
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