Home for the Holidays (I Guess)
I have this visceral memory of watching A Christmas Carol when I was a child – well, watching is a rather strong verb considering I was only able to muster enough courage to view the film through the gaps of my fingertips. Without any sure-fire reason, for the weeks following, well after my dad had wrestled down our artificial Christmas tree drenched in yellow string lights, the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future haunted my dreams. Even when I tried to stomach the Muppets’ interpretation of the book, I was still left with an empty pit resting at the bottom of my stomach. No matter how many times I tried to solely focus on Tiny Tim’s wobbly declarations of “a Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, everyone!” I was unable to peel myself from Scrooge’s trials and tribulations with the scariest Christmas spirit: himself. Scrooge, time and time again, was left to, quite literally, fight his internal demons.
I guess I never understood my taste aversion to this Christmas classic until this most recent holiday season. I’m unsure if it’s due to my time away from my hometown or the fact that I’m still rearranging and healing myself in light of the pandemic, but it was difficult to get in the holiday spirit this year. Despite the garland outside of my home and the familiar Christmas lights adorning shopping centers I’ve spent far too much time (and paychecks) at and the faint trace of gingerbread wafting from my coffees this past month. The truth is, I’m exiting December without ever feeling as though I entered it. Introspection is messy and hard and truly the most arduous task one can take on, so I’m here to offer my two cents on perhaps a shared feeling of being unable to deck the halls properly this year.
It’s possible the home, the place where we are supposed to feel safest and warm, you returned to lacks consistent solace. Because it’s possible we’re scared to retrace roads we know so well that have provided us with the most scars. The places we wish to envelop ourselves into are also the places that have damaged us the most, leaving us to bleed happy memories internally, losing them at a moment’s notice. Sure, when I go home, I drive along the coast and laugh to myself when I see a Christmas tree heartbeats away from the shoreline. Yet I’m also painfully aware as I drive that I’m passing the parking lot where I've cried more times than I’d care to admit. I’m passing the beach where I had my first kiss and I’m close to my high school where a different version of myself was trapped.
Don’t get me wrong: homecoming is lovely as you’re reunited with family and get to navigate how your parents feel about your own “growing up” and you get to see their eyes sparkle when they pour you a glass of wine to go with dinner for the first time. And there’s the reunion with old friends who know your roots better than you do yourself and the hours of “do you think so-and-so from high school is still dating that guy from your calculus class” or “I met someone in college” or “I saw our old history teacher at Trader Joe’s last weekend.” It’s just difficult to feel at home in a place that you have perhaps outgrown yourself. It’s difficult to feel at home in a place where every stop sign and familiar face reminds you of a person you used to be. It’s difficult to be constantly reminded that you’re growing up and home will not grow alongside you.
Your hometown is ridden with ghosts – various versions of yourself that you used to be floating around among suburban chatter. It’s possible the place you know best also knows you better than you’d care for it too. Because when I peer into parking lots and empty beaches and coffee shops I love, I, like Ebenezer Scrooge, am faced with figments of my past, constant reminders of mistakes and achievements I’ve had thus far (which are equally as daunting in my own eyes).
There’s also the pandemic to be considered, much to the dismay of the Grinch, on the case of who stole the holiday season. While we navigate the newest variants and mask mandates and isolation periods and rapid tests and PCR tests, it’s possible we forgot to pour ourselves a hefty cup of cheer. I find myself having difficulty breathing, not because of a two-ply facial covering, but due to the grave amount of uncertainty that still hangs over my head. It’s harder to relax with a Hallmark movie and a cup of hot chocolate in light of COVID’s continuing, stagger effects on our daily lives and because of the uncharacteristic weather we’re facing as a result of climate change and because of my internal bouts with my brain.
So, after precise consideration (staring at my ceiling in the middle of the night for a fair amount of hours that have melted into early mornings), I’ve decided it’s okay that I took this holiday season off. Despite my own qualms and the little negative voice in my head, I’ve decided that my failure to feel holly and jolly is out of my control. It’s a reminder that I’m still growing, that I’m not forcing a square peg into a round hole. I’m broadening my concept of home to include a new place where I’m experiencing an ungodly amount of “character development” and I’m still relearning roads I used to frequent, as now I’m wandering them zipped inside a new skin and navigating freshly-grown bones. The holiday season, if one is to strip it from its commercialized form, is at its core a time to focus on loved ones, warmth, and good food. That’s what I decided to do this holiday season. Or try to.
I’m keenly aware of the vulnerability growing up is gifting me; it’s almost laughable at times. The Charlie Brown Christmas special made me cry and every gift I received, no matter how silly in nature, was rose-colored in my eyes. I know now why A Christmas Carol made my stomach hurt. Oftentimes, there is no alleviation found in solutions, but I can try to find comfort in myself and acknowledge the change I’m undergoing. Maybe that very realization is greater than any Christmas tale I can consume.