It’s the most wonderful time of the year…
Or not.
It’s a lonely time.  It’s a time of unfulfilled expectations.  Because it’s supposed to be a time of families getting together, sharing love, magic, joy.  Maybe for a lot of people, that’s what happens in real life.  But for many of us out here, it’s just another empty day.  One that feels even more empty than normal because it’s supposed to be full.
I have a memory from when I was a young child.  It’s Christmas break.  My father was a teacher, so he was home with my brother and I.  It was a few days before Christmas and it had snowed…a big, deep, delightful (when you’re a child) snow that turned the world into a wonderland.  My father was born and raised in Michigan.  It snowed there a lot and while this wasn’t a major snow by Michigan standards, it was pretty significant for Missouri.  The snow was thigh deep in the shallowest of places.  It was almost waist deep in the drifts.  We could barely contain ourselves, we were so excited.  We bundled up and rushed outside to enjoy the miracle.
My father didn’t often play with us.  But even he seemed enchanted by the beautiful snow that shrouded the world in intense, frigid white like icing on a cake.  Being from a state where snow in the winter was an everyday affair, he knew lots of outside winter games.  He asked us if we knew how to play fox and geese.  We both shook our heads no, shivering with anticipation rather than with the cold.  And so the fun began! He instructed us to clear out a big circle.  We kicked and dug and packed and tramped, working up a sweat.  Once the circle was complete, he had us make an “x” through the circle, dividing it into 4 equal quadrants. 
He was the fox first.  We were the geese being chased around and through the pathways we had created in the snow.  The goal of the fox was to catch a goose, who would then become the fox. We ran for our lives!  Laughing.  Falling.  Laughing some more.  It was so much fun!  We played until we were soaking wet and freezing cold and totally exhausted.  Then we all tumbled back into the house to change into dry clothes and warm our stiff, numb fingers and toes.
This is where the memory changes for me.  I was in my room, having just opened the drawer to my dresser.  I was trying to decide what sweater I wanted to wear.  As I poked through the 4 or 5 sweaters I owned, I was startled when the door to my room opened and closed.  My father entered my room and he was acting funny.  Playful daddy had turned into sick daddy.  I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense of dread.
“Let me make you warm,” he said quietly.
He removed my clothes as I hopelessly begged him not to.  Kissing, fondling, groping, invading me.  And when he was finished, he said, “There, now isn’t that better?  Get dressed and come on out to the kitchen.  I’ll make us all some hot chocolate.”
I remember picking up my discarded clothes and placing them in a pile.  I dressed quickly.  I felt numb.  Once dressed, I picked up my wet things and cast a glance back into the room before walking out the door.  I wanted to make sure everything was in order.  But what I most remember…vividly remember…is leaving the shattered little girl behind.  I left her there, a pile of gore and broken bones where my wet clothes had been laying, hideously destroyed, fractured beyond recognition.  She wasn’t able to walk out of that room.  She wasn’t capable of facing the monster who waited down the hall with hot chocolate and marshmallows.  She couldn’t move; couldn’t stop screaming.  She was in a million pieces and I left her there to fend for herself, half angry with her for leaving me, for making me go out into the world alone.  I saw her body, ripped, torn, decimated.  I turned away.  I walked out of the room.  Closed the door.  And joined my brother and father as we sipped steaming mugs of freshly made cocoa.  As if nothing had happened.  As if nothing had changed.
Why do I remember this particular memory so clearly; so vividly?  It wasn’t the first time my father sexually abused me.  Nor was it the last.  It wasn’t one of the worst memories I have.  Certainly there are far more horrible memories of perverted things he did to me. So why is this one day, this one event, etched so deeply and perfectly in my mind?  Why can I still see it as if it happened only yesterday?
Several things seem pertinent.  For one thing, when my father started sexually abusing me, I was probably around 5 years old.  The memories I have of that time are shrouded in fantasy.  I didn’t have the maturity to understand what was happening.  I didn’t like it.  It scared me.  It felt wrong.  But I didn’t have the ability to grasp or process what he was doing, so I created a fantasy world and escaped into it.  As an older child, this was becoming more difficult to execute.  And I believe I had finally reached an age and a point of understanding where it was no longer possible to ignore or wrap what he was doing to me in a make-believe world. Secondly, having come to an age where I could not longer deny or shroud in fantasy what my father was doing to me, I shattered.  I believe the memory I have is of the day, the moment in time, when that shattering took place.  So even though what was done to me that day was not the most vile thing my father would ever do to me, it was a significant moment in time.  It was the moment I was utterly destroyed.
I didn’t stop loving Christmas.  But it was never a carefree time for me afterwards.  I was always looking over my shoulder.  Waiting for the darkness to come.  It was never wonderful after that day.  There was a hidden razor’s edge, waiting to cut into my deepest and most vulnerable parts and places.  There was always pain mixed with the happiness.  Fear mixed with the laughter.  Terror mixed in with the carols that were sung.  And I stopped expecting it to be special.  Because everything that was special had been taken away from me.
Guarded, posing in front of the Christmas tree at age 12.
Guarded, posing in front of the Christmas tree at age 12.
Magic no longer existed.  The lights were not as bright, the ornaments weren’t as shiny.  A hideous monster hid behind the bows and colorful paper that covered the gifts under the tree.  I knew the monster.  The monster watched me, waiting, pouncing, taking.  Christmas that year was when I finally saw him for what he was.  And then, I closed the lid of the brightly wrapped box and smiled and acted as if everything was as it seemed.
He is dead now, this ghost of Christmas past.  But he haunts me still.

2 thoughts on “Christmas”

  1. I’m so very sorry for what happened to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. None of us do. I hope and pray that you are able to free to experience the pure joy you were intended to have in your heart. Love to you…

  2. Wow, I completely understand, and I’m so sorry your father violated you and your experiences in such a casual way. I have many vivid memories like that myself–supposedly fun times, supposedly healthy attention that led to abuse that I had to bury deep inside of me and keep going. It wasn’t life but we can try to make one today.

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