Why I get sad at Christmas

circa 1976

Christmas just doesn’t feel quite right to me. It stirs up a lot. Lately. But it hasn’t always been that way.

As a child, I can remember being so freaking excited about Christmas. I recall being at my grandparent’s house in Ingoldsby Ontario, unable to sleep on Christmas Eve. The anticipation felt magical. And warm, and sound, and nuturing. More than the gifts, the idea that there was this someone who somehow knew me and knew what I wanted (yes, Santa) was astonishing and lovely and almost unbelievable. Even if that was the same someone who was going to be that very same thing for all the children around the world, it didn’t matter.  My desires (albeit material ones) felt as though they were being noticed.

Now I know that it was the idea of being seen that was so alluring.  That’s really all it amounted to.  The feeling of   being attended to, recognized, maybe even known was what was really the captivating part. Somehow the gifts were what represented all that. I know that now.

And too, there was a feeling that, once I got my gifts, I would be happier. Not that I was unhappy, but I’d never been a super cheery little kid. Just kind of quiet, pensive and, well, I’ve discussed reasons for all that before.  Having the latest toy would make me happier. Wearing that new sweater would make me happier. Eating the stocking full of cheap drug store chocolate would make me happier.  I guess you know how that turned out.

As you know, it’s not about things. It never, ever is about the things.

As I got older, of course I learned the truth about Santa Claus and began to realize just how much money my (single) mom was forking out to buy my twin sister and I gifts. At the same time, I discovered this kind of selfish indifference and darkness inside me when I didn’t get exactly what I wanted. It was really a twisted and complicated and confusing place to be. Which goes back to that “being seen” thing. Mind you, lots of teenagers don’t feel “understood”. I’m certain that experience wasn’t unique to me. But it felt so big. And painfully lonely.

Again, this had nothing to do with the things. It just felt that way.

Christmases in my teens and 20s were about me continuing to chase this ideal. That someone would know me, understand and SEE me and that would be demonstrated through gifts. I was doing the classic “expecting” thing which never ends well.

It wasn’t until my 30s, when I began receiving help at Sheena’s Place (for anorexia) that I learned about the phenomenon of “Unmet Needs” which, to make a long story short, is at the root of many a dissatisfying life experience.  This whole longing to be seen, heard and understood is something I erroneously held a lot of hope that Christmas would address. But of course, that’s as magical a type of thinking as believing that a fat guy in a red suit  really knows me and what makes me who I am.

Now that I’m aware of that huge fact, the next step is to be there for myself, and to find a way to give myself those things that meet my needs. And while I’m certain that the *key* to all this is somewhere deep within me, it feels impossibly difficult and enormously unachievable, and sad.  But, I have to persevere and be patient, knowing that I’m the one who has to do this work.