Happy Holiday Trauma!
Happy Holiday Trauma!
A love letter to anyone feeling a bit crap right now
Ahhh Christmas. There really is no escaping it now – the Lords are stretching their hamstrings limbering up to leap, the maids have dusted off their pales ready for ‘a-milking’, and that partridge is making damn sure no other bastard eyes up his pear tree. The lights are up, the decorations are festooned, and I’m writing this mere metres away an 8 foot tinsel-clad teddy-bear with penguin feet and illuminated reindeer antlers – one of the more unsettling sights of this holiday season.
With grim inevitability, it was not far from this ‘ted-guin-deer’ that I found myself, earlier today, weeping messily in the homeware section of a dated department store. The type that reminds me, fondly, of the provincial town where I grew up. Indeed, I had gone in there to re-capture some of that childhood magic.
Christmas shopping is no challenge when you can buy anything you can think of on the internet – or live in London (as I did for years) where every shop you can think of is on your doorstep - with another branch further down the road. But put me in that particular type of run-down department store –its once glamorous beauty faded, floor-tiles chipped and the air fogged with the scent of a million cheap perfume bottles – and my creative juices start flowing as I play the game of “if I could only shop here, what would people enjoy?”.
It was here, idly eyeing up a tree decoration in the shape of Freddie Mercury’s head, that it happened. Ahead of me was a stand covered in cheerful looking Christmas mugs made by Emma Bridgewater – a cosy, satisfyingly chunky UK pottery brand. I walked over grinning, and picked one up with a festive London scene painted on it. Almost immediately I felt my eyes flood with hot tears – and not just at the outrageous £25 price tag. Embarrassed, I took myself quickly away to the mercifully empty towel section – because… well who buys towels at this time of year.
Why this sudden outburst of emotion? Because I had unexpectedly come face to face with my very own Ghost of Christmas Past; my late mother. My mum and I had a tradition of giving one another these mugs at Christmas. I’m not sure how it started – but over the years it became “A Thing”, and I loved the process of deciding which one she would like best. Seeing them here I felt the familiar jolt of “oh yes, of course I should get her one while I remember”, a split second before my brain was able to process “oh no wait – she’s dead”.
Grief – as many of you know – is a funny old beast. After the first couple of years of pure hell, it morphs into a silent ninja assassin, waiting until you least expect it to jump out from behind a curtain and slap you hard in the face. It’s been a while since I had a good slapping – but when it comes, it’s no less painful than the day I had to walk away from her cold body at the hospital.
Painful as it is, I also love hanging out with this ghost; after all, it’s what I have left now. Grief, it’s said, is the price we pay for love. It’s the other side of the same coin – one cannot exist without the other. And there’s a certain sweetness to the gut-wrenching emptiness that hits one from time to time. It’s proof that they existed; proof that your love was real. In that moment I could have sworn she was standing beside me, wondering if we needed any new towels and expressing horror at the idea of a Freddie Mercury tree decoration.
My mother’s ghost is always a guest at Christmas now – fitting for the traditional season of ghost stories. Special occasions are the time we miss people the most – and the poignancy of traditions we knew as children dials this emotion dial up to eleven. In my case, Christmas was mine and my mother’s thing. We did it and planned it together – each taking the same childish sense of joy from it. She was very much a traditionalist, her Christmas tastes mostly Victorian; gold cherubs, fine china, polished silver, carols playing, sugared almonds in glass dishes, holly and ivy draped over paintings. Mine were somewhat corrupted by my 80s childhood; multi-coloured tree lights, fake snow, paper-chains, half-eaten sugar-mice (remember them?!) and Cliff Richard. One year I gave her the CD single of Fountains of Wayne’s sadly forgotten festive hit “I want an alien for Christmas” and we started to meet in the middle more.
Now I carry on without her – and somehow the gaping cavern of her absence makes her feel closer. She’s there when I buy enough food for 14 people when it’s only me and my dad, she’s there when I guiltily by Christmas crackers despite her curiously strong aversion to them, she’s there when I source the perfect chocolate-coated nuts (her favourite thing), and she’s there when I climb the stairs to bed on Christmas eve and am flooded with a million memories of childhood. I keep her traditions – some of which were her mother’s traditions – and while it brings me comfort, it also ignites deep and profound sadness.
I know I’m not alone. Anyone who has sadness in their life (and, let’s face it, who doesn’t?) will likely have mixed feelings as we gear up for another month of advertising campaigns showing perfect joyful families and friends living the Christmas dream – no matter how woke the scenarios become. This idyll is not one that exists for most people over the age of 10. Or even under it.
While on the surface it’s all lights and jollity, beneath it all is a season that highlights anything we lack. It might be a dead parent or friend, a child longed-for but never conceived, financial security, a clean bill of health, supportive friendships, professional success, or a family one actually gets on well with. In my close circle of friends alone, people I love are coming to terms with a life-altering illness, spending what might be their last Christmas with an ill parent, grieving the loss of a sibling and bravely parenting their own child, having walked away from abusive parents themselves.
It's a complicated time of year – and it’s ok if you don’t feel your best. I write this for anyone feeling less than perfect right now. I see you. I love you. I promise not everyone is out wearing sequins every night and photocopying their arses at the work party (still a thing?!) before heading home for an adoring picture-perfect family get together. And if you feel joy one minute at a musial toucan snowglobe, and weep the next at the heart-breaking realisation that your life is not where you thought it would be – that’s completely normal. Embrace the festive mess.
As for me, after mug-gate I headed home and had a lovely soggy weep on my boyfriend’s chest, while he held me and asked questions about my mum – a woman I wish he could have met. And it struck me, Christmas is really just a time of love – in whatever form that comes. Every year I get hung up on finding perfect gifts and food – and every year I wind up thinking how lucky I was to love and be loved by my mother, and grateful for the awesome folk who remain in my life. So let’s show ourselves some love this year too – cut ourselves some slack and know it’s just a season. This too shall pass.
Christmas doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s more a ‘Ted-guin-deer kinda’ holiday.
Having a complicated Christmas? Let me know in the comments and let’s all prop each other up. Oh and I’d also really like to know if you’ve seen any creepy decorations that can rival the Ted-guin-deer… extra points for pictures.
I bet more people can relate to this than those who can't. It's so fitting at this time of year. I'm heading into my 3rd Christmas without my son and it has never been the same...not even close to jovial and merry.
Hugs to all who have to get through this time without the most important people in our universes. 💗💗😐