Chapter 13: Holiday Drama
The house was quiet and a bit lonely after the guys left. But shortly after they’d landed on the west coast, that emptiness had become filled with lamenting thoughts of carnal turmoil. How I craved the eerie silence again. Acknowledging the unprocessed emotions and traumas at the root of such dysfunction would require me to face decades of pain that I’d yet had the courage to, and I hated that.
The first peek into my psyche revealed wounds from the family I wasn’t able to create- and the person I’d hoped to share that life with. Those ghosts had been hiding in a hollow cavern where precious moments with my family should have been comfortably nestled. Grief gripped my chest and created a pit in my stomach. The pain of my broken dreams was too much to process. I’d need to work up to that.
When I was ready to try again, I mentally revisited Thanksgiving weekend as it had been weighing on me that I didn’t share it with any relatives. Holidays had changed a great deal since my mom moved away to act as grandnanny to my nephews, but our family always found a way to celebrate with at least one immediate member. For me, that had been my sister. Whether at her house, mine, or a distant relative’s, we had the unspoken tradition of spending major holidays together. It meant something to me. Each occasion was an opportunity to revisit fond memories that laid dormant otherwise. And as sad as it was, such gatherings had become the remaining pillars of our relationship.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t made peace with those emotions before they compounded themselves. A conversation with my mother revealed my family had spent the holiday together- without me. As far as I knew, she had celebrated with my brother’s family, and my sister with hers. But that wasn’t the whole truth. It turned out that our brief chat on Thanksgiving had been a failed game of telephone. I assumed when my mother noted “everyone” was working on the side dishes, she was referring to my brother’s family. Just as she assumed I knew my sister’s family had flown up to spend the holiday weekend with the rest of them. We were both wrong.
That new information warped my sadness into heartbreak and created a devastating core experience. Even knowing I might have declined their invitation to spend time with Alex did nothing to cushion the blow of feeling so painfully excluded. Their treason absolutely blindsided me. And while it probably shouldn’t have, it gutted me. The only people in the world who were “supposed” to care about me, including the very person who’d brought me into it, had left me out at a time when I desperately needed a sense of belonging. My heart was shattered.
Rejection and abandonment didn’t mix well with the guilt and insecurities kicked up by my misspent evening with Alex. My ego wasn’t healthy enough to handle one issue, let alone both. It fed itself on painful recollections of past indiscretions, ultimately convincing me I’d lost what was left of my family, and that I wasn’t worthy of love.
The weeks leading up to Christmas grew even more challenging as none of my relatives were aware of the silent rift or marital separation and a joyful gathering wasn’t the place to air such grievances. My options were to preserve the festivities by bottling up the pain and lying when asked where Nate was or how my immediate family was doing, or be the Scrooge of the party and unload my heavy heart. Neither appealed to me.
Instead of attending any celebrations where I’d undoubtedly run a marathon of uncomfortable lies, I made the decision to commit to one broad tale from the beginning—I would be spending Christmas with Nate’s family. Done. End of story. It would’ve been far healthier to attend a gathering and speak my truth about…everything, but I wasn’t ready for that. Anything I’d confide in one person would make its way through the bloodline by night’s end and I wasn’t having that. The breadth of what my immediate family deserved to know about my life had shrunken considerably and I’d need to work through at least some of the contempt before sharing with them again.
Broderick missed Thanksgiving with his mom because that was the only weekend his friends were able to visit, so he was looking forward to spending a few days with her around Christmas. He asked about my plans a couple times and repeatedly invited me to join him. I really didn’t want to lie to him, so I used a loophole. I told him I might meet up with my sister for the holiday; might being the loophole, of course. I hated being dishonest with him (of all people), but I was doing my best to pacify all portions of my fractured self.
When Christmas week rolled around, Broderick spent three days at his mother’s while I stayed at our house with no intention of leaving. I briefly spoke to my mom on Christmas Eve, where I pretended I didn’t loathe the family’s dynamic and I’d had a lovely day with Nate. An Oscar-worthy performance as the reality involved drinking alone and poking at the raw, frayed edges of my abandonment wounds.
Christmas Day included more of the same. No cookies or gifts under the tree, just me in my eerily quiet bedroom recounting every memory and limiting belief that supported my state of unrest. Cynical thoughts grew in vastness and strength until darkness completely reigned. When I tried pulling myself out by peddling positive thoughts of my few close friendships, I thought of Alex...and then our fateful encounter. That only added fuel to the fire.
No matter how hard I tried, my mind kept circling back to beliefs that no one loved me and only a few even cared. I hated feeling that way. Worse yet, I didn’t know how to see it differently. I wasn’t trained in clinical psychology, so I didn’t know how to lift the oppressive weight of repressed emotions or rewire the rigid mental framework that was running the show. By bedtime, I was equal parts shame and vodka.
Broderick was set to return home the following evening, but I couldn’t pull myself together beforehand. Actually, his pending return was the only thing that could make me feel worse. Having to come clean about how I’d spent the holiday wasn’t something I was looking forward to.
After he dropped off his things, Broderick stopped by my bedroom and asked how Christmas went. I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Too weighed down with emotion to answer, I offered a silent thumbs up. He didn’t say anything else. He walked in and sat next to me, then rested a hand on my forearm. Part of me wanted to know how his holiday had been, but it was buried too deep beneath my misery to make itself known. A couple minutes of dense silence led to tears pouring from my eyes. I closed them, hoping to stop the flow. I couldn’t bare to look at him, or know my pain was being seen. He squeezed my arm before whispering he’d be around if I wanted to talk, then left my room.
While Broderick was at work the following day, I did my best to mold myself into something that resembled a living being. I compartmentalized my thoughts and emotions during a much-needed shower and got some food in my system. A granola bar and half an apple weren’t much, but they were still progress.
When he came home that evening with takeout, I was sitting on the couch staring blankly at the TV. I don’t recall what was on or even if I’d selected it intentionally, but I do recall the tension in the air as Broderick entered the living room. He turned off the TV and unpacked the bag he’d set on the coffee table.
He broke the silence with, “You look rough, Candace. Have something to eat,” as he handed me one of the containers and a set of chopsticks. As much as I hated being called Candie, that would’ve been preferable to the way my name sounded in that moment.
I’d never been able to eat when stressed or depressed, so it was a big ask—especially with the unyielding force field in the room. I nibbled at the vegetables and picked at the rice as best I could, but my body strained to digest them.
He waited until I’d eaten about a quarter of my stir-fry before trying again, “How did you spend Christmas?”
Too ashamed to continue, I switched to poking at my dinner, “Had a quiet one here.”
“Was that your plan all along?” he questioned carefully, but with discernable undertone.
I still couldn’t look him in the eyes, and I struggled to answer as mine filled with tears. I placed my partially eaten meal on the table and pulled my legs toward my chest. “I didn’t want to pretend to be in the holiday spirit. But I also didn’t want to ruin it for you guys,” I shared in a whisper.
His eating slowed to a halt, “You’ve been out of it for weeks. I thought you were stressed about seeing your family. But if that wasn’t it, what’s been going on?”
His voice stung. Not because it was meant to; it just did. His words triggered my ego and his concern angered my demons. They’d worked diligently to convince me that no one cared and his presence was jeopardizing their best efforts.
I sat there in silence as the internal battle had me at a loss for words.
He took a breath before continuing, “Whatever’s going on in there,” he motioned to my head with his chopsticks, “it’s only going to get worse if you don’t address it.”
I wiped the tears that had rolled down my cheek in lieu of words flowing from my mouth.
Sensing defeat on the horizon, he offered, “I’m here to help, but I can’t if you don’t let me in.”
I knew he was right, but the inner conflict wouldn’t allow me to convey what had consumed me. I could only let out an exhausted sigh. When I tried once more to muster some words of acknowledgment or appreciation, my body fought me on it. My lips protested the very words I’d chosen to speak and only allowed, “I’ll figure it out,” to make their way through. Defeated by my own wounds, I picked up my dinner and stood to bring it into the kitchen. Before I left, I added, “Promise. Thanks.”
My external reality may have been drastically different from the year prior, but some things hadn’t changed at all.