A Very Anticlimactic Holiday
A Very Anticlimactic Holiday
Sometimes the holidays bring out the hygge and sometimes they're a blurry mess.
Everyone. On the count of three. Take a long collective sigh out. 1-2-3: Aaaaahhh.
Yes, the holiday season is now finished and we can all get back to our regularly scheduled programming.
The holidays stress me out weeks before they start. As a neurodivergent, my executive function just doesn't function, so planning and arranging and buying presents and staying alert is all more than my poor little brain can handle.
It’s like. When I have a meeting at 2 pm all I can think about all day is the meeting. I can’t do much else except think about the meeting. Sometimes even a phone call with a friend of which no preparation is necessary, I’m just thinking about the meeting and playing solitaire or scrolling Instagram.
I was never allowed to be free enough to find out what happens when I don’t think about the meeting, but I suspect I’d forget about the meeting entirely.
And when the meeting happens, a phone call, or knock on my door, I’d not be prepared in the slightest. My brain’d be with whatever thing I had just been doing and not with the meeting. I'd be tetchy with the meeting for taking me away from the thing I had been doing and from my brain in general. My brain likes to be in its own space without outside intrusion.
My brain doesn't shift tasks easily. To the meeting from the thing before the meeting and then back from the meeting. It can take hours. Days. Weeks.
So, starting a week or so before Thanksgiving, it's like a month long wait to a meeting that then I have to come back from.
I don't think it always felt this way. When I was small I remember there being some joy in it. I knew my grandparents' houses like I knew my own. I didn’t have to buy presents for anyone or make sure I packed a bag properly. Or gather the dogs and their things. I didn’t even have to drive myself or plan to be anywhere at a certain time. I just went easily along, as kids can do.
People prepared me food and gave me presents and one Christmas I remember finding my way onto the all-season room at Grandma and Grandpa Altobelli’s, which surprisingly was empty, and sinking into a movie. I was so engrossed my cousin had to say my name three or four times to get my attention.
I hadn't even registered she'd come in. It was pure bliss.
I don't know when the holidays transitioned from a relatively warm hygge time to massive bouts of stress. But I do remember in my early 20s I had a boyfriend. I consider him my first (only?) adult boyfriend, though there was little adult about us, but he’s nevertheless the only person I’ve brought home for the holidays.
And it was just a lot.
Both my grandparents' still hosted a dinner. The Altobelli’s had Christmas Eve evening and the Walkup’s Christmas lunch. Then his mum and dad both had slots of their own. Four Christmas’s.
And a Christmas party at my cousin Marcia’s!
On top of that, he and his dad did not have a good relationship. Nor was Chris particularly communicative. He did not tell his dad I was coming and they’d never met me.
What an emotional disaster. Whatever their relationship, his dad felt awful that he hadn’t known and I felt doubly awkward for showing up without warning.
He seemed pleasant enough, apologetic that he hadn’t been able to get me something, however small. I was apologetic for turning up. And we circled like that.
So while giving me a tour of the house and showing me his model cars he gave me a Jaguar I was admiring.
I still have it. I think I like the car more than I liked the relationship.
How did we manage to visit all those houses and eat all that food without breaking down into tears? (I may have. I don't remember.) I do remember napping rather heavily during one short intermission before regretfully waking and moving off to the next event.
I didn’t know myself at all then. I wasn't aware of how much rest I needed and how much alone time I prefer.
Now I parse my time, though it's easier without a partner and his family, I stayed home Christmas eve on my own. Just me and the dogs. In honor of the Icelandic tradition of gifting books Christmas Eve night and going off to read them, I cooked myself a nice meal and then did some reading in front of the fire.
The whole thing was a bit of a mixed bag from there.
By the time I left the next day, there was a lot of snow on the roads. Driving was stressful and Lina, the 60 lb lap dog, got car sick. I didn’t dare stop and let her out because I didnt think I’d be able to get her back in the car.
So I cracked a window and stopped for a bit on the side of the road. I had given her CBD treats before we left hoping they'd relax her. Not this time. The roads were too rough, too windy, and I was alternating speed too much. Honestly, I’d have been sick too.
We did eventually make it to the Altobelli’s where Copper stayed tethered to me in a measure of safety. He’s not as familiar with the house. And as soon as I let him free, he marked a shelf in my grandparents’ room though I’d just taken him out. I put him out again. He marked again. By the time he marked my great-grandpa Joe’s ancient ottoman, I had to get us out of there, shitty roads bedamned.
I had a nice reprieve: Christmas drinks with friends while Copper, calmer, stayed with Grandma Walkup and Dad, but later couldn't sleep. Then Copper, who has to check on everyone in unfamiliar places, woke the house at 5 am.
The rest of the day was hazy.
I delivered some cookies to family. We opened presents. We ate. My sweet, adorable (“NO I’M NOT!”), empathic nephew tried to comfort Copper, who was again tethered to me for safety, when he cried a bit longing to explore. Bridger took Copper’s face in his hands and asked him why he was sad and then built him a “house” by lining cars and trucks around us until we were enclosed at the table.
He thought a house would make Copper happy.
But another storm was coming, so we dismantled the house, packed everything up and were on the road before 2 pm. The snow blowing across the road hypnotized me, made my tired eyes swim, and, frankly, I’m surprised we made it back without my crashing us into a ditch.
But we did. And I slept and slept.
Being neurodivergent is difficult in ways people can’t always see and we respond in ways that don’t always make sense to those who love us. We get angry, we cry, we disappear off by ourselves. The thing we seem upset about isn’t always the actual problem (though sometimes it is or an extension of a deeper problem).
We love our extended families, but we feel quite happy back home in our cabin (or, more like large log house with all the amenities) in the woods.