A few weeks ago, in a therapy group, we were asked to go around the room and talk about holiday traditions. What were we looking forward to this season? I looked down at my feet, and tried to search through my memories. Did I have any traditions?
My last family Christmas was in 2009, right before my mom died. She was frail and brittle, attached to an oxygen tank. Holidays, for my family, were more about tradition than religion. My mother was Jewish and my father grew up sort of Christian. We considered ourselves secular. We would put up a tree every year, listen to Christmas music and hope that the cat wouldn’t knock the tree down again. One year my entire family got the flu, and we struggled through it together. After my mom was gone, holidays were stilted and painful. My dad, brother, and I would go over to a family friend’s house or stay home and open presents from underneath a tiny light up ceramic tree. Lost was the magical warmth of my childhood. After my father’s death, we tried. I spent some holidays with my brother’s legal guardian’s family, and those were okay. I was grateful to them for including us. Yet to me, nothing will ever take the place of holidays with my own family. Feeling happy and comfortable, with a childlike sense of wonder.
Since I have been in treatment, I have met so many people who do not have families, or do not feel like a part of theirs. Last year, when I was in residential treatment, it was almost nice spending the holiday with my peers. This year, however, most of my friends are at home, with family. I try so hard to avoid jealousy. I posture. My answer to my pain is that I don’t do holidays. I have no traditions and they mean nothing to me. Christmas, is just another day. I just moved and I have so many boxes to unpack, I’ll use my free time to do that. I avoid my fear, and the feeling that I’ve lost something that I will never find again. Lilting laughter, warm tradition, subtle happiness. I am not scrambling to wrap presents this year, in fact I haven’t wrapped a single present. It hurts, but ultimately I have to tell myself that it is okay.
It is okay that I am on my own.
It is okay that I am just starting my life again, and still figuring things out.
It is okay that these times are hard, I don’t need to pretend that they’re not.
It’s okay that I miss my parents, and the days when life was just a bit easier.
It’s okay.
The holidays are not filled with joy and laughter for me. They may not be for you either. Ultimately our lives aren’t defined by one day of the year, they are defined by our actions. I love so many people, and care so deeply. So today, I’ll smile at the twinkly lights and hope that everyone out there, regardless of their situation knows that whatever they’re feeling is okay.