I am thinking that maybe this year is a good year to become a normal person and hate the holidays just like every other person in the planet.
I love (used to love) the holidays.
But I had an epiphany today.
When I was married, I spent all the holidays with my husband’s family. For 15 years, I never spent a christmas or a New Year’s Eve with my own family.
At that time, I never thought it odd. But now, I see how out of character that was for me. And then, it suddenly hit me.
I put thousands of miles between my family and I. Every year, they tell me how much they would like to have me there for the holidays.
And every year I tell them that yes, I would love to be there but unfortunately money is tight and flights are expensive so I can’t go. Which is not a lie but it isn’t the real reason either.
How do I tell them that I simply can’t go because they still live in the house where my mother was murdered?
How do I tell them that the minute I step on the doorway, I see my mother’s blood all over the couch and on the floor?
How do I tell them that every time I go visit I come back to Canada being a mess?
How do they do it? I have no idea. Perhaps they are stronger than me.
I don’t know.
Every year, as soon as December rolls in, I put up the christmas tree and play christmas songs hoping that I will be able to have a happy christmas.
But the truth is that I haven’t had a truly happy christmas since I was 5.
Then remember my daughter and how much she likes christmas – something she got from me, because when I was innocent of the brutality of this world christmas always used to be awesome.
I have been in denial for so long.