Christmas Makes Me Sad

Christmas makes me sad.

There is a grief that sneaks up on me every year, quietly, like a cat padding up behind me. It sinks its claws deep into my skin and won’t let go. The pain settles into my bones, and I get so used to it that I stop noticing it hurts, until my entire body screams.

As a child, the magical lights of Christmas trees and the festive colors adorning neighboring lawns made me feel like an outsider. In our Mennonite church, we weren’t allowed to decorate for Christmas. As an adult, Christmas festivities make me nostalgic for a childhood experience I never had. Sometimes, they make me feel cynical and sad. I still feel like an onlooker and a perpetual outsider. This belief has permeated my life in such a profound way that when I experience a bit of magic, I can’t believe it’s actually happened.

This year, while wandering the streets of a small-town Christmas market, I experienced a bit of magic. I love being in a crowd of people where no one knows who I am. When in Mennonite gatherings, I am never anonymous, more infamous. I adore anonymity, and the passing kindness of strangers. There was a fabulous older woman who passed me and said, “Now that’s how you do an outfit!” and a young barista who commented, “I love your hat!” Strangers stopped to say hello or nod a greeting, the shops were glittering with lights, and Christmas music floated through the streets.

I was sipping my hot cocoa in a small shop while paying for a vintage fur hat. The older lady behind the cash register sized me up and said, “I have something that would fit you perfectly.” She popped into the back room and returned holding a black fur jacket. “From the 1940’s,” she said, “In perfect condition, plus it’s 20% off. Why don’t you try it on?”

I’ll admit the room spun a little. There is nothing I love more than vintage clothes and furs, and I knew I didn’t have to see my reflection to be sold. When I tried it on, it was beyond perfect. I left that store with the jacket and hat, and only $70 dollars poorer. I still check my closet every day to make sure they are there.

That experience has helped the rewiring of my brain. Good things can happen to me. Magical things can happen to me. People can be kind to me.

But sometimes, in the quiet of these cold, dark nights, my thoughts turn heavy. Why should magic and celebration coexist with violence, poverty, and unrest? This paradox has been a theme in my life, and I have always wrestled with it. However, during the holidays, it is closer to surface and easier to touch. For many people, myself included, the holidays hold both the magical and the traumatic.

I remember celebrating Christmas with my family when I was 14. That year, Christmas felt like a deep inhale right before the air got punched out of my lungs. I remember, in quiet moments I had to myself, thinking about how one of my older classmates made me feel uncomfortable at our school Christmas party. I hated the feeling I got when he looked at me. At the time, I had no idea how correct my feelings were. He went on to assault me for months after Christmas vacation. I changed forever after that Christmas, and I wished for years to go back and save my younger self.

I remember Christmas when I was 16. My family and I celebrated the holiday during a church split. We made cakes for our neighbors, who were kinder to us than the people we shared a church pew with. I sobbed in the truck after a church Christmas party, telling my dad that I didn’t have a church anymore, while he protested because he didn’t want to believe it yet. I listened to O Holy Night over and over after youth activities until the words tattooed themselves to my memory. We made a beautiful Christmas dinner and tried to forget what was happening, but a few days after Christmas, my dad decided to step down from the ministry. What followed was months of humiliation, betrayal, and grief I have yet to process completely, almost a decade later.

I remember another Christmas Eve, not many years ago. I was at a large family gathering when my phone dinged in my pocket. I took it out and read a stunning message from a friend, who told me I shouldn’t be angry that a little Mennonite girl was murdered; I should be sad and pray for her family instead. My anger at the perpetrators was unwarranted and misdirected, because I didn’t understand the situation. I remember how my vision tunneled and blurred, and how I excused myself to take a breath, away from the noise.

I went outside in the bitter cold and stared up at the glittering stars, numbly watching as my breath danced towards them. It was that exact moment I knew in the depth of my soul that I had to leave the Mennonite church.

Now I sit here under the dark blanket of the Winter Solstice, wondering why my chest tightens with anxiety as the holidays get closer. Wondering why I think “something isn’t right,” and the thought sends me into a spiral of anxiety. Wondering why I check on my darling pets and bring them to extra vet check-ups, just to ease my mind that they’re healthy and I won’t lose them. Wondering why I feel heavy and tired and sad. Wondering why part of me wants to go back to the seclusion of my old religious community, while another part of me feels cynical and critical.

“It’s all water under the bridge.”

But all water cycles back eventually.

The duality of celebration during confusing, turbulent times is never lost on me. This year, it weighs on me more than ever. I, along with many other people, have experienced a lot of unplanned grief this year. I’ve grieved my country. I’ve grieved old friendships. I’ve grieved my wish to stay the same in my beliefs. I’ve grieved my identity.

I still hold on to hope. But rebuilding is harder than destruction, and I won’t downplay the heavy things I’ve said by ending with platitudes. I know that I will build a new identity, new traditions, and new friendships. But it’s hard. It’s been hard, and celebrating in midst of sadness is an odd, uncomfortable experience.

Maybe I’ll have a little Christmas dinner and set a place for sadness at the table, while the lights of my Christmas tree remind me of the child I used to be.

I still wish I could save her.