The Ghosts of Christmas Gifts Past
12.22.05 (9:32 am) [edit]
"Gifts are like hooks." ~Marcus Valerius Martialis (40 AD - 103 AD)
Once again, my favorite time of year. I actually like Christmas and I definitely like giving gifts, but I'd really prefer it if no one gave me any. It harkens back to the ghost of Christmas past when the gifts I received were the gifts from my family. Specifically, my dad. It was always, always a disaster.
I remember one year I asked Santa for a tea set. When I opened my gifts, there was no actual tea set. Instead, I got a box with six small (but fancy) bottles of jelly. It also included four small plates that, if I remember correctly, were constructed of some metal which was painted with a different flower on each plate. They were about three inches in diameter. I was very puzzled and probably disappointed, but I acted as excited about it as I could. I knew that anything less than overwhelming gratitude and joy was likely to result in me getting hit again. By the time Christmas rolled around, I'd already been hit many times. Generally the hitting occurred before, during and after obligatory Christmas photos. There were plenty of other opportunities to hurt me throughout the holiday season. Then to top it all off, I always got something bizarre that I had to feign enthusiasm over. I'm talking lots of enthusiasm.
One year, when I was in the first grade, I got a jewelry box with a little rotating Japanese girl. I had no jewelry; I was in the first grade. I still have the jewelry box, though.
I got a watch with removable faces in red, blue, green and maybe some other colors. That would have been good, except that meant that no matter what, if I lost the watch or if it quit working, I'd be in serious trouble. Not only was it another opportunity to hurt me, but it also required apologizing for being such an ingrate. The apologies could go on for years. Literally. Five years after I lost a ring I had gotten for my birthday, I was still apologizing for losing it. That's despite the fact that the ring was about four sizes too large for my little fingers. We resolved that problem by wrapping endless amounts of cellophane tape around it to make it (kind of) fit. Given that fact, I'm not sure how I managed to hang onto it for as long as I did.
I got lots of boy toys. Airplanes, helicopters, train sets. My dad really enjoyed playing with them. Though he logged the most time with them, I still had to kiss his proverbial ass over what a fab gift I got. I got underwear. Always an exciting gift for a kid. And yes, I was required to get excited over fucking underwear.
There was no amount of enthusiasm and grattitude to satisfy my father. Weeks after I'd gotten a gift and thanked him numerous times, he'd randomly, out of the blue say, "You never thanked me for it." He would use the opporuntity to remind me that he never got anything for Christmas. Poor Ed. Greedy, ungrateful ggirl.
Once I started receiving gifts from people outside my family, I noticed that people sometimes seemed a bit taken aback by all of the enthusiasm I expressed for something like a box of Win-to-green Lifesavers. I tried to ratchet the gratitude down a notch or ten. I've spent the last thirty years trying to find the correct response to gifts. I admit that I'm no closer now than I ever was.
I get profoundly uncomfortable when people give me things. In fact, I really hate getting gifts. No matter what I do, it's impossible to force everyone to not give me a gift. It's not just the seeming weird that's problemmatic; it's the knowing that I seem weird that's the most difficult.
Today was the day people at the office delivered gifts. Fuck fuck fuck. I've tried sending out memos requesting that no one get me anything. Do you think that would stop them? Hell no. I guess I'd better get on with trying to hit that magic response that isn't too big, isn't too small, isn't just completely weird. I really hate this time of year. And just for the record, I actually am grateful. Merry fucking Christmas.
America held hostage day 1450
Bushism of the day:
"And if one of those jobs are created, we must have a system which trains people for the jobs which actually exist." —Bush, discussing employment training
Source: U.S. Newswire, "Remarks by the President on Employment Training," June 17, 2003
Once again, my favorite time of year. I actually like Christmas and I definitely like giving gifts, but I'd really prefer it if no one gave me any. It harkens back to the ghost of Christmas past when the gifts I received were the gifts from my family. Specifically, my dad. It was always, always a disaster.
I remember one year I asked Santa for a tea set. When I opened my gifts, there was no actual tea set. Instead, I got a box with six small (but fancy) bottles of jelly. It also included four small plates that, if I remember correctly, were constructed of some metal which was painted with a different flower on each plate. They were about three inches in diameter. I was very puzzled and probably disappointed, but I acted as excited about it as I could. I knew that anything less than overwhelming gratitude and joy was likely to result in me getting hit again. By the time Christmas rolled around, I'd already been hit many times. Generally the hitting occurred before, during and after obligatory Christmas photos. There were plenty of other opportunities to hurt me throughout the holiday season. Then to top it all off, I always got something bizarre that I had to feign enthusiasm over. I'm talking lots of enthusiasm.
One year, when I was in the first grade, I got a jewelry box with a little rotating Japanese girl. I had no jewelry; I was in the first grade. I still have the jewelry box, though.
I got a watch with removable faces in red, blue, green and maybe some other colors. That would have been good, except that meant that no matter what, if I lost the watch or if it quit working, I'd be in serious trouble. Not only was it another opportunity to hurt me, but it also required apologizing for being such an ingrate. The apologies could go on for years. Literally. Five years after I lost a ring I had gotten for my birthday, I was still apologizing for losing it. That's despite the fact that the ring was about four sizes too large for my little fingers. We resolved that problem by wrapping endless amounts of cellophane tape around it to make it (kind of) fit. Given that fact, I'm not sure how I managed to hang onto it for as long as I did.
I got lots of boy toys. Airplanes, helicopters, train sets. My dad really enjoyed playing with them. Though he logged the most time with them, I still had to kiss his proverbial ass over what a fab gift I got. I got underwear. Always an exciting gift for a kid. And yes, I was required to get excited over fucking underwear.
There was no amount of enthusiasm and grattitude to satisfy my father. Weeks after I'd gotten a gift and thanked him numerous times, he'd randomly, out of the blue say, "You never thanked me for it." He would use the opporuntity to remind me that he never got anything for Christmas. Poor Ed. Greedy, ungrateful ggirl.
Once I started receiving gifts from people outside my family, I noticed that people sometimes seemed a bit taken aback by all of the enthusiasm I expressed for something like a box of Win-to-green Lifesavers. I tried to ratchet the gratitude down a notch or ten. I've spent the last thirty years trying to find the correct response to gifts. I admit that I'm no closer now than I ever was.
I get profoundly uncomfortable when people give me things. In fact, I really hate getting gifts. No matter what I do, it's impossible to force everyone to not give me a gift. It's not just the seeming weird that's problemmatic; it's the knowing that I seem weird that's the most difficult.
Today was the day people at the office delivered gifts. Fuck fuck fuck. I've tried sending out memos requesting that no one get me anything. Do you think that would stop them? Hell no. I guess I'd better get on with trying to hit that magic response that isn't too big, isn't too small, isn't just completely weird. I really hate this time of year. And just for the record, I actually am grateful. Merry fucking Christmas.
America held hostage day 1450
Bushism of the day:
"And if one of those jobs are created, we must have a system which trains people for the jobs which actually exist." —Bush, discussing employment training
Source: U.S. Newswire, "Remarks by the President on Employment Training," June 17, 2003
Magic
12.19.05 (8:49 am) [edit]
I've been silent a while because of the overwhelming effects of my chemotherapy. Every new round brings mouth blisters and blisters on my hands. I feel like I'm on auto pilot most of the time, just trying to endure the pain and not think too much about the future. I'm getting a lot of practice in living in this very moment. Unfortunately, the more in the moment I am, the more parts of me get shut down. I don't really have the concentration to read or write. Sometimes it feels like there's only a small part of myself that isn't in pain. I continue to try to live in that small space, profoundly aware of the pain, but walled off from the full impact. I have no choice but to insulate myself to whatever extent I'm capable. Luckily, I got really good at this when I was a kid.
This is where the post traumatic stress disorder comes in. Admittedly, ptsd adds a whole layer of complication to life and it diminishes my range of feeling. Those are just a couple of ways that my survival mechanism that saved me keeps me chained to the past. However, the ghost of christmas past has a part to play in helping me to endure the present. I've got an enviable ability to place issues beyond the reach of my mundane thought processes. I imagine the difficulty (or fear, worry or pain) in a box. I imagine opening a door in my mind and placing the box inside of it. I bar and then lock the doors. While I know that the gift box will have to be opened and dealt with at some point, it's safely tucked away so that I can resume my life.
Everyone in my life tells me what an inspiration I am. They're inspired by my ability to find and celebrate humor. They're inspired by my steely determination to get out of bed every day and function at work. They don't know the secret. They don't know that I created a room in my head long ago and that pain gets ushered through that door. Pain and I have an understanding. I'll be back to deal with it as soon as I can. Pain is patient and settles in for the wait.
I've never doubted that I managed to grab some magic from my terrible past. I've used it in far less difficult circumstances than these. When things get too hard, I search for the correct incantation. At those times, I'm grateful for the terror and pain of my childhood.
This is where the post traumatic stress disorder comes in. Admittedly, ptsd adds a whole layer of complication to life and it diminishes my range of feeling. Those are just a couple of ways that my survival mechanism that saved me keeps me chained to the past. However, the ghost of christmas past has a part to play in helping me to endure the present. I've got an enviable ability to place issues beyond the reach of my mundane thought processes. I imagine the difficulty (or fear, worry or pain) in a box. I imagine opening a door in my mind and placing the box inside of it. I bar and then lock the doors. While I know that the gift box will have to be opened and dealt with at some point, it's safely tucked away so that I can resume my life.
Everyone in my life tells me what an inspiration I am. They're inspired by my ability to find and celebrate humor. They're inspired by my steely determination to get out of bed every day and function at work. They don't know the secret. They don't know that I created a room in my head long ago and that pain gets ushered through that door. Pain and I have an understanding. I'll be back to deal with it as soon as I can. Pain is patient and settles in for the wait.
I've never doubted that I managed to grab some magic from my terrible past. I've used it in far less difficult circumstances than these. When things get too hard, I search for the correct incantation. At those times, I'm grateful for the terror and pain of my childhood.
