Well, I hate to say it. But say it I must. I need to talk about the holidays again. You see, I naively believed that if I could just inoculate myself with the healing powers of a Substack post early enough in the season, that would be that. I would, for all intents and purposes, exorcise the holiday demons, brush the bad juju off my proverbial hands and move on. Free as a partridge in a pear tree.
Then in swooped the ghosts of Christmases past, pestering me in their commanding Dickensian English baritones. They said, and I quote, not so fast, Grinchy McScroogepants.
Friends, do not be fooled. We are not, once Halloween has passed us by, finished for the year with haunted holidays. No, we are not. When the dwindling daylight of December casts its long shadows early in the day, inky nights are sure to follow. And those nights are full of specters that curl vaporously around strands of twinkle lights, conjuring memories of all sorts. Explicit memories. Implicit memories. Cellular memories. Memories that can make a heart leap with joy or sink like a stone and everything in between.
Ominous warning aside, this annual December haunting inspires me. It inspires me to irritability. Irascibility. Ill humor. A level of cantankerousness that can only rightly be called inspired. And I know I am not alone in this. Inspiration of this sort is drawn far and wide across the pre-Christmas landscape (If you’re feeling skeptical about what I’m saying here, head outside and take a good look around. The long line in the stuffy lobby of your local post office may be a good place to start).
Now, I could site all sorts of perfectly plausible external reasons about why this might be. I could fill an entire glossary of reasons, at least a solid reason or two for each letter of the alphabet. But I won’t because I can make my point with the letter “c” alone. Commercialism. Consumerism, Constant carols. Couples canoodling under the mistletoe. And does anyone else remember the 2021 supply chain shortage of cream cheese for the Christmas cheesecake? Completely confounding. Enough said.
But really, once again it turns out this cannot be pinned entirely on externals. It is another inside job.
You see, my inner curmudgeon (yes, you may call him Ebenezer if you wish) is just a cover. A crotchety cover masking a melee of mixed emotions felt by the invisible, yet distinct, parts of self that roam around, ghostlike inside me. If you peek under his cover, you will see them there, jostling each other as they jockey for position, hoping to get in the queue to pre-register for eventual feeling and expression.
As with most things I offer, this concept of having multiple parts of self, each with a unique perspective and feelings, is not original. You may be familiar with lingo like inner family, inner child, inner critic, inner [fill in the blank] or perhaps have heard of, or experienced “parts work” or Internal Family Systems therapy. In any case, we all have separate parts, which is why you might catch yourself saying “part of me feels…” It’s a thing, really and truly.
In my experience, the parts of me whose emotions most desperately need to be seen and expressed are also the most tender and vulnerable. And they rarely, if ever, make it to the front of the line. They are rudely elbowed aside by other parts who know how to play to the audience (i.e., polite society) by exhibiting things like Christmas cheer, enthusiasm, excitement, and gracious acceptance of that ugly Christmas sweater you will never, ever wear.
Mind you, the emotions of these socially acceptable parts are not entirely an act. They’re not all mindless drones serving the holiday hive mind’s queen bee. They genuinely thrill at memories of the enchantment Christmas held for me as a child. But those parts are at odds with other parts. The ones that darken the doorway with their disappointment and disillusionment about times when expectations of holiday happiness collided head-on with the reality of difficult family dynamics, misattuned gift giving, financial stressors and larger-scale systemic injustices of all sorts. They are the parts that felt desolated by grief the day after Christmas, when the bubble that glistened and shimmered magically during the December buildup so abruptly burst.
The emotional mishmash of this time of year can either settle in like a fog, making it hard to tell what we’re feeling, other than just…foggy. Or, it can come on suddenly, squalling like a Nor’easter.
I had such a squall the other day. All at once, I could notice nothing but the snowless December landscape here in New England juxtaposed with ubiquitous holiday decorations depicting pristine snowscapes with sledding children, jolly snow men toking on corn cob pipes, and Santa delivering gifts by sleigh. One part of me felt outrage and betrayal over what it saw as cultural gaslighting about the dire reality of climate crisis. Another part felt forlorn about the loss of white Christmases past, then tumbled down a rabbit hole of deeper grief about the loss of both my parents. Yet another felt afraid of what will happen in years to come and busied itself by catastrophizing about how rising sea levels will eventually cancel Christmas altogether.
So, what does one do when the entire parts community catches the emotional flu simultaneously? Set up an emergency triage center? Run like hell? Go on an eggnog bender?
Well, I don’t know what will work best for you. But I do know that for me, the answer is deceptively simple. I need to lean into the free-for-all and feel the feelings. And by feel, I don’t mean ruminate. I don’t mean analyze. I mean feel those suckers.
I start by listening to which part is yelling or wailing with the most distress or pulsing with the most pain in my body. I acknowledge that part and name the emotion it’s feeling. I let it know that I will hold as much space as it needs to express itself. I tell it I won’t abandon ship. And then I wait until it grows quiet, as quiet as falling snow used to be.
I wonder if you’ve identified with anything I’ve said here. If so, then my work is done. Because while I can’t offer a magic bullet, I can assure you that you’re not alone. Attendance at the annual holiday mixer is pretty much compulsory, because the holidays are stuffed like Christmas stockings with the highest highs and the lowest lows. Let’s normalize it.
But ruminating and analyzing are so much easier than actually feeling! 😭 Well, not really . . . not in the long run, anyway. I still end up amazed over and over by the magic that happens if I just let myself feel the fucking feeling . . . and how quickly the feeling quiets down as a result. I suspect o will need reminders to do this for a long time yet. Thank you for your humor and wit and helpful nudges!
So much good stuff in here. Pre-registering to be felt and expressed!! The lighthouse wave picture. Let us also not forget: “the 2021 supply chain shortage of cream cheese for the Christmas cheesecake? Completely confounding.” lol nice work there. I love your facility with the community of selves inside. It’s very comforting to me. I heard someone say we don’t have a self, we have a community of selves, and I thought Yes. That’s what I’ve experienced my whole life. “It’s a real thing!” 👯♀️👯♀️👯♀️