[Note: this is a deeply personal reflection about my life. I think that it is of general interest, but it doesn’t deal with the nuts and bolts of the world that is the mainstay of this site. It is a story that I fear many people share to one extent or another—either from my perspective or that of my mother. If it is from the latter, I am truly sorry; hell is not supposed to be for children.]

I just realized why I hate holidays. Will was telling me about how even if he became a member of the Jehovah’s Witness church (whose members do not celebrate religious holidays), he would still feel as though he had to do Christmas for his kids, because his parents did it for him. That really got me thinking. As a child, I tended to dread holidays—especially Christmases—because my mother would almost always ruin them.

I don’t mean to vilify my mother; she was in most ways a great woman. She was very loving and (before the ravages of alcoholism) very smart and knowledgeable (amazing when you consider that she had only a grammar school education). When my mother was young, she was also very beautiful—a hottie, in the modern vernacular. But she was also deeply scarred in an emotional sense. As a child, she was sent from relative to relative and was sexually molested repeatedly by at least one uncle and probably also by her step-father. As a result of the molestation and (perhaps equally important) the shuffling, which would certainly have given her the belief that she was unwanted and unloved, she turned inside and found comfort in literature and drink. Even in her final days, she was always reading a novel—usually with drink in hand. Her taste was not mine—she especially liked historical romances, but she read widely—non-fiction included.

I think that holidays brought out the worst in her for two reasons. First, she had the feeling that they should be wonderful days but they always disappointed—they couldn’t make up for the emotional pain she felt throughout her life. And second, she couldn’t handle the stress of the holidays. And so she would get drunk and lash out at others—usually my father and usually without good reason.

As a result of this, I don’t really like holidays. I do like personal holidays. I love it when out of the blue I get a package from Andrea, who I originally bonded with over our shared addiction to thrift shops. And I love it when I find something that I think my father, for example, would love that I can give as a present for no reason in particular. But these are no-pressure, no-expectation events. If you will, “Practicing random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.”

So I am two days away from life returning to normal. I can hardly wait!

Update

In the mean time, follow the wisdom of Bill and Ted: “Be excellent to each other!”