When I was young, Christmas was the best day of the year. For one day my family would put aside its shit and pretend to be a normal family. Even my father would relax and let us do what we wanted. We could get away with anything on Christmas. My dad would just smile and say "It's Christmas, today is special," and let us off the hook for whatever crime we had committed. My mother's insanity would be monitored by my dad, and whenever she got too overbearing, he'd gently remind her that kids only get to be kids on Christmas a few times in their life.
It was a strange transformation from the norm. As we got older, the rules of Christmas started to break, until finally one morning my brother, aged 14, failed to open the wrapping paper correctly according to my mother's control freak wishes. He tried, of course, as hard as he could, because he could see my father's bright eyes as well as I could, a clear warning sign that he had been up all night drinking and that he now was in the incredibly dangerous state that alcoholics reach. He now waited, like a coiled snake, for any chance or excuse to strike. But perhaps inevitably my brother's fingers slipped and he accidentally tore a strip of paper from a small gift.
"Bring that to me," commanded my father in a carefully controlled voice.
My brother glanced at me and our mom, then walked it over to him.
"I thought I heard your mother tell you not to rip any of the paper," said my father.
I remember thinking, as my brother might have also been, that we were trapped in a play. A script. A heavy sense of inevitable doom hung over us. We could see it, smell, hear it pressing in our ears, but despite knowing exactly what was to come were powerless to escape it.
Don't say anything, I thought. You'll only make it worse.
"Dad --"
The backhand came so fast. Again, looking back, my father seems like a viper striking.
My brother, to his credit, did not fall and begin crying like I would have and had done many times before. He simply gathered himself, and wiped the small trickle of blood from his nose away. My mother watched impassively. The memory sharp within me now, as I write this, I suddenly realize that I hate her more than anything else.
"But dad, today is Christmas," my brother says softly, a quiet, last desperate plea.
"You're not kids anymore," my father replied. "It's time to grow up."
So it was that my last Christmas I loved was that year when I was 12. From then on, Christmas became just another day to me. I severed it from myself so that it could not hurt me again. My father struck deep at me, and though the majority of his physical abuse over the years was directed at my older brother, his fists could hurt even when they weren't hitting you.
All throughout my teenage years and early twenties I did not care about Christmas. When I was young I'd dutifully wake up when my father ordered it and joylessly hand out and open the gifts, pretending to be happy and excited so that my father would not be angered. Later when I moved out I'd sleep in till 10 or 11, simply not caring. I spent many Christmases alone, but that fact did not bother me in the slightest. My father died, drank himself to death, and still I did not care.
Then a strange thing began to happen, very recently. I started looking forward to Christmas again. Not because of the gifts, but because of the goodwill. I started to mean it when I told my friends "Merry Christmas" or "Have a good Christmas". I wanted them to be happy. I wanted them to have a day of real joy, of real happiness, in their lives.
Why am I telling you all this? you may ask. You didn't ask for this window into my personal life history. I fully realize I am not the only person who had an abusive parent(s), much less a difficult childhood. I'm not asking for your sympathy. Believe me, I don't need it. I am only telling you this to give you some sort of understanding of the depth of what I mean when I tell you all that I wish you a Merry Christmas. Those words are empty, repeated endlessly so many times that even a Christmas fanatic derives no meaning from them. They are just a thing that is said at this time of year, like "Have a good day" when you leave the drive through window. They are decorative words.
But perhaps now that you see the real emotion behind them when I say them, to you, you might take more notice to them than when a retail clerk at JC Penny says them to you. I hope each and every one of you has a day filled with peace. Today, like the days when I was young, may you find respite in this holiday. This community is an important part of my life, and you all make up the community. I care about you. I'm old enough now to realize that friends, even LOL INTERNET friends, are far more valuable than anyone can imagine.
So, Merry Christmas.
Assholes.
