Thanksgiving

Writing A Different Script for the Holidays

I’m writing this blog in time for Thanksgiving. The opening salvo for the holiday season. Narcissists take the opportunity to turn what ought to be a time of renewal and fun and make it a time of joyless misery and infernal obligation. Never is the narcissist’s anger and manipulation more on display than at the holidays. For those of us who grew up in homes like that, holidays can trigger the terrible experiences of our past and remind us of all we have lost. For those who are still in situations in which we must spend time with our family of origin, the holidays are a source of dread. We hold our breath until it is over relieved we have survived yet another year. Putting a narcissist and a holiday together is like stirring nitro glycerin in a pot of soup. You know it’s going to blow up eventually. Narcissistic abusers use the holidays as an opportunity to ramp up bad behavior. 

My mother’s mental illness was never more fully on display than at the holidays. My father’s frustration and anger were never more palpable than during the season of light. We were the very opposite of what the holidays were supposed to be. It was miserable. No one wanted to be there—including them. Yet, we were all expected to play the game and go through the motions. 

“There’s so much pepper in this gravy it almost blew my head off,” my aunt “hollered” to my mother one long ago Thanksgiving. A deep freeze fell over the room as we waited for my mother’s reaction. She turned red in the face and barked at my aunt to shut up. Thanksgiving was a burden to my mother and she made sure we knew that. She resented having to cook. She resented guests. She resented kids and most of all, she resented Thanksgiving. It irritated the broken inner core of her own trauma, but instead of turning toward healing, she took it out on all of us. It was as if the holidays reminded my parents of all the things they could never have—because they chose not to have them. And you darn well better be there to witness and participate in the misery. What foolishness.

That thanksgiving was the last one I ever attended. But it would take decades to rewrite a different script for my holidays. I’ve spent the last few blogs talking about anxiety. Never is anxiety more present than at the holidays; all those years of conditioning, all the bad memories, all the expectations. We long for what we do not have, what other people seem to have, and what we can’t figure out how to get. The old fear and obligation my parents instilled in me comes to the surface.

Sitting in my courtyard garden today, I noticed the bougainvillea plant that I thought was dead. It was finally blooming. We purchased the home from dear friends that had decided to move into assisted living. Too ill to tend to the plants before they moved, the garden was nearly ruined, but as I fertilized and watered consistently, my courtyard garden came back to life. I call it my secret garden and it fills me with great joy. My bougainvillea had managed to climb the trellis and find the sun. The part living in the light was filled with bright fuchsia colored blossoms. 

For most of my life, I lived in shadow. I ran away from the pain of the past and tried to protect my real self by keeping it hidden. But the truth is, it is only when we turn toward our pain and bring it out into the light is it possible to heal. To finally find joy. To break away from sorrow’s immeasurable difficulties and forge a new life apart from trauma. Healed from suffering. 

The bougainvillea looked dead for a long time. Its spindly vines grew leaflessly up the trellis. But when those vines grew tall enough to reach the sun, the blooms and leaves began to pop. I want to run away from the memories and the pain. I want to hide away from life until the holidays pass.

But if I choose to do that, I not only miss out on all the potential joy, I miss out on all the potential healing. I must not turn away but turn toward the pain allowing the lies to be exposed, the fear processed, the anxiety felt. In addition, I will place a sign on the garden of my heart “NO TRESPASSING.” I get to make the choice of who comes in and who goes out. 

The friends who moved to assisted living did not live long. The husband passed away and his wife, my dear and close friend, Janice, died two months later. I was at her bedside when she took her last breath. Struck with how much death is like birth, I watched as Janice’s body labored for several days. Death follows a process. I stood near, held her hand and spoke words of comfort and love. I asked the nursing home owner to come hold my hand and make a circle around Janice’s bed so we could pray. I had no idea how much longer the suffering would last. When I asked God to come and take Janice by the hand, she opened her eyes. I looked at her and asked her to place her hand in the hand of God. As soon as the words left my mouth, she took her last breath. It was holy. It was profound. Blessing instead of cursing.

How different from my own mother’s death. I had not seen her in many years. Her hatred had driven me away. My own survival kept me away. I felt nothing but relief when I received word it was finally over. Never again would I have to be afraid of her. Never would I have to worry about her being homeless, or what she might do to harm me. I would not have to struggle with guilt over going no-contact. It was finally and forever over.  

My mother’s shadow tried to destroy the blooms of my life. Janice was like rich nutrients teaching me how to live and in the end, even how to die. I think of Janice every single day especially on this holiday. I choose to live in Thanksgiving. Making every day I can, the embodiment of gratitude, giving, celebration, happiness and joy. Defy Trauma, embrace joy.