Used to be, I’d go into a major depression about the second week of November and it would last until New Year’s Day. Nightmares. Malaise. Dread. The hell that was Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I hate Christmas.
I grew up in a violent, drunken household run by a violent, narcissistic drunk who hated me and her violent drunken husband. I’m someone else’s kid. It’s not easy being on the outside looking in. Someone else’s kid is never real. Never a real sibling. Never a real daughter. Never a real part of the family.
Holidays started with name calling, insults, the drunk trying – and succeeding – to start a fight. The screaming. The crying. And that was just the first hour. The next hour featured my mother screaming that we didn’t spend enough time eating the meal she spent two days cooking. As the drunks drank more, they got nastier and louder. Behaving badly and making others miserable was our holiday tradition.
We lived in Western New York where the roads weren’t plowed from about December 20 until January 2. We had to drive through an unplowed swamp to get to the in-laws. In the dark. It always snowed huge, fat, mesmerizing flakes. It was nearly impossible to see the edges of the road. The in-laws screamed and fought almost as horribly as my family. I have two happy memories: the Thanksgiving when I had the flu and was too sick to care and the Christmas when dime-store, caroler shaped candles were lit. They melted into a huge puddle covering the bottom of the foil pie pan.
One year, after driving 20 miles on icy roads, my grandmother asked if we would drive another 20 miles to pick up her sister. Fortunately, her sister declined the invitation. That was 40 years ago. I’m still pissed that she had the nerve to expect us to drive all over hell’s unplowed half acre.
Eventually, Jim and I decided to go on vacation over Christmas. This ended the family hell and the in-law hell. One year, we discovered the entire state of Maine, with the exception of LL Bean and one gas station, shuts down on Christmas. We sat in a hotel room eating stale sandwiches from the only gas station that was open while watching A Christmas Story. It was a pleasant Christmas. A far better Christmas than could be had with either my family or the in-laws.
There’s a truck stop in Lexington, Kentucky that’s open on Christmas. They have the best biscuits. They are also the only place that’s open. We drove around Kentucky eating Chex Mix and clementines while looking for an open restroom. One year, we went to West Virginia and stayed at a resort. At least the restaurant was open, the restroom was open, the food was decent, and they stocked The Washington Post.
After discovering my German Lutheran family were really Polish Jews, I gave up on Christmas. I was no longer tied to a pagan holiday. I could celebrate Hanukkah. I made my raku menorah. I left the Christmas decorations packed away somewhere in the garage. I had a holiday that came with no horrid memories, no screaming, no fighting, no crying, and best of all, no extended family.
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