Post Traumatic Christmas Syndrome

There's the chicken salad and the reason there are tiny specks of chicken on the pecans is that before I just gave up and decorated it the regular way, I'd spent at least half an hour trying to concoct some Martha Stewart-like artwork with the grapes and the pecans but it looked completely demented and I just threw those grapes out and reused the pecans so there you go. And look- it was only about six grapes.

Oh well. And la-di-dah.

It's been gray all day and I've been on the verge of tears all day. I am eternally trying to figure out why Christmas is so hard for me and by that I mean why is it so heavy-hard for me, not just some general light dread and hatred? It's like my weird horrible fear of medical stuff. I can't figure that one out for the life of me. 

But honestly, Christmas isn't that big of a mystery. There are all sorts of factors but the one that goes back the furthest is well-worthy of being defined as a traumatic experience. It was the Christmas of 1959, I think, and I was five years old. My mother had been secretly plotting an escape from my father whose drinking had escalated to levels making him a danger to her and my little brother and me. He'd fallen asleep in a chair with a cigarette and almost burned the house down for one thing. Another thing is that I do believe, although have no real proof, that he was abusive to my mother in the physical sense and definitely in the emotional sense. I don't remember him ever raising a hand to me or my brother but there's little doubt that could have happened down the road. 
Mother knew that if he found out she was leaving, he would definitely do something to stop her and it would not be pretty. So. She went to her pastor at the Presbyterian church in Chattanooga, where we lived, and he helped her with airline tickets and plans and transportation to the airport so we could escape to Florida where her parents lived. 
And all of this happened right after Christmas. Like- the day after, perhaps. 

The whole thing was so scary. Even at the age of five I was very, very good at sensing emotions in adults and I knew that my mother was panicking and she had every reason to. But we made it to Florida, to Roseland, where we stayed in Granny and Granddaddy's little cabin on the Indian River and that is how I got there to begin with. But initially, of course, I was confused and worried. No one ever thought of trying to communicate with kids about the reasons such a thing might be happening in those days. I had heard the word "divorce" being whispered here and there but I thought divorce meant you got rid of one daddy and got another which sounded pretty okay to me. 
Before I figured any of this out though, my mother came down with a serious case of pneumonia and had to go stay in the hospital in Vero Beach, leaving my brother and me with my grandparents who were virtual strangers to us, mainly my grandmother, as Granddaddy spent a lot of time with Mother at the hospital. Granny was profoundly deaf and it was almost impossible for us to communicate with her. She was frustrated. My brother and I were frustrated. 
It was a cluster fuck of epic proportions. But here's a thing I remember- my grandparents had friends in Roseland and one of them was a woman named Helen Kretschmer. That is probably not how her name was spelled but I have no real idea. She and her husband Ed, lived in a tiny little apartment over a garage right near Granny and Granddaddy's house. That little apartment is still there and every time I drive into Roseland, I remember the night that Mrs. Kretschmer had us over for a supper along with a few other of their friends- all older people but I am sure younger than I am now. And Helen gave me and my brother some simple little gifts. Perhaps picture books? I don't know. But she was one of those people who was able to make others feel seen and appreciated, even children, and that was quite rare then. 
She was a very special woman. And also, I loved the way she wore her hair, twisted up and held in a sort of bun, rather than cut and permed like all the other ladies did. 
And eventually Mother got home from the hospital but I swear to you- I can remember so many Christmases afterwards that she ended up in an ER on Christmas Eve or Christmas Eve day, always with some sort of respiratory illness. 

So that's surely a part of why Christmas is difficult for me. It takes me back to a very difficult and frightening time. A time in which I had no control and even less understanding. 

Well, thanks for letting me write that out. I know I've told this story before, Helen Kretschmer and all, but I think it is good to remind myself that there are reasons why Christmas is not my favorite time of year and that I am not necessarily just a horrible person with a stone cold heart. 
There are other reasons, of course, that Christmas is difficult for me but as I said, that memory is the most primal of them. 

Meanwhile, here it is, Christmas Eve, and I have wrapped all my presents and have made a list of what we need to take to Lily's tomorrow. This is going to be a very early lunch because once again, Lily's kids are going to their father's house at noon. 

I hope the grandkids like the presents we got them. That would make me so happy. 

Here are some camellias I picked today. 

And I will wish all of you the best of whatever it is you do tonight and tomorrow, however you celebrate or don't celebrate. It helps, I think, to ponder on the solstice and the way this planet interacts with our sun, our moon, and the very way we circle about, even as we hurtle through infinite space. As tiny as our little lives and lights are, they are a part of it all. 

Mine too. Yours too. 

Love...Ms. Moon