Christmas Family Traditions Give Me Anxiety.
Overthinking Christmas with just a dash of over-sharing, and a sprinkle of family dysfunction.
Christmas, for most kids, is a whirlwind of sugar highs, twinkling lights, magical experiences, and the promise of dozens of presents wrapped in shiny paper under the tree on Christmas morning. I wish I could say it was the same for me. I remember the very first Christmas I became truly self-aware—the moment I realized that the magic my 19-year-old mother worked so hard to create came at a price she could barely afford. This is when Christmas, and the whole concept of receiving gifts — for ANY holiday, not just Christmas — really changed for me.
Long before the self-awareness set in.
Let me give you an example. You may be reading this and be old enough to remember the chaos of 90’s parents fighting over the must-have toys of the season—none more infamous than the Furby. It was the toy every kid wanted, and somehow, despite the odds, my mom managed to snag one for me. I knew about it before Christmas morning because she couldn’t keep the surprise. I remember her telling me that she was able to get one because paid $60 cash for it. When she told me this, I knew it was way more than she could afford because we didn’t spend $60 on a lot of things… ever. I felt a sinking sense of guilt that she spent the money on the toy, and I knew that in some other way we would be going without for the next couple of weeks because of it. Furby was the only gift she was able to give me that year. The rest of Christmas came from the kindness of strangers. We were a family sponsored through the local food bank; the rest of the simple gifts, and food we received that year were donated by generous family from the local community who didn’t even know us.
You would think with my middle name being Noël (yes, like Christmas – we’ve already been over this) the holiday spirit inside me would be baked in. But instead of joy, I often feel out of place, and wildly uncomfortable in what, to me, feels like forced cheer under the weight of crushing family dynamics that are anything but festive. In my first decade of life I split Christmas between parents, grandparents and different family members every year. We did not have any real consistent Christmas traditions because I had been taken from my mom’s custody several times between the ages of 4-10; I never did quite know where I would be celebrating Christmas that year, or with whom. More importantly, how would Santa know where to find me?
Christmas was with Grandparents this year.
It’s not that I didn’t want to enjoy it—I just never looked forward to it, and I experienced what I understand now to be an incredible amount of social anxiety, especially at large family functions with people I didn’t know very well. I wonder if family reading this will remember the infamous Christmas eve events where I’d spend hours in the bathroom on the toilet. People would be yelling their ‘goodbyes’ to me through a wooden bathroom door because I quite literally would have liquid hot lava pouring out of my body, and I never could explain why. It wasn’t the food. I later learned from my psychiatrist that my anxiety is not only a psychological thing, but a physiological thing as well.
This is not something that has changed for me unfortunately. There were times up until only a few years ago that I would return to my adopted family’s home for the holidays, and be there for approximately 36-72hrs (never typically longer than that). I would spend most of my visit biting my tongue, keeping my opinions about things to myself, and doing my best to refrain from partaking in the gossipy conversations that would take place around the kitchen dining room table. I shoved every emotion I possibly felt while being with them into the pit of my belly. I never felt as though I fit in with my family – especially after I moved away from home. When I was later diagnosed as neurodivergent, it was clear to me why I struggled so much with maintaining a relationship with them. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Little did they know, as I was saying my goodbyes to leave every short but sweet visit, I needed to plan for at least one pit-stop on my way out of the city because I could only “keep my shit together” for short-bursts of time. The second I would leave the family home, my entire nervous system would begin malfunctioning, and I’d basically need to be prepared to make it to the nearest Tim Hortons bathroom, or be prepared to shit myself on the side of the side of the 402-highway.
After I was officially adopted, every Christmas my adopted step-mom (I know – the titles are complicated) would gift me colourful matchy-fleece pajamas and deodorant; this became a tradition that became as predictable as the holiday itself. The problem? I hated the feeling of fleece on my skin. It felt like sandpaper and gave me the chills when I touched it—something I now recognize as part of being neurodivergent, and I had no idea at the time. And the deodorant? Always a floral scent that gave me splitting headaches; you know the kind that linger long after the wrapping paper is tossed. The scent would stick to my nose hairs and make my stomach turn, but I didn’t know how to tell her. I was terrified she’d think I wasn’t grateful, and the last thing I wanted was to hurt her feelings. So, I would wear the pajamas ONCE in front of her (changing out of them before climbing into bed), and would pretended to love the deodorant, all while sitting there wishing I could just ask for things that didn’t make me feel inside-out. Up until a few years before she died, she continued to do the same thing – pjs, deodorant and toothpaste, even though I repeatedly asked her not to in the later years, she did anyway. I never told her this, but I always donated the things she bought me to the Mental Health unit in whatever hospital it is I was working in that year over Christmas. I hope her cremated remains aren’t rolling in her urn as I type this.
The fleece made my skin crawl.
Gift exchanges today are an exercise in extreme levels of uncomfortable awkwardness for me. I try to tell people not to buy me anything, but they rarely listen. I prefer engaging in “experiences” together. Let’s go out for dinner, to a show, or to the spa. PLEASE! You need to know that opening presents in front of others feels like a high-pressure performance for me – my heart beats inside of my ears, and I feel like I am on the verge of tears the entire time. What are you supposed to say while you are tearing the paper? Do you rip the paper? Peel the tape slowly? Are you supposed to talk about the packaging while you open it and ask the question out loud “What could it be?” Ugh… the small talk makes me nauseous. The worst part of all, what if I don’t actually like the gift? The thought of having to plaster on a grateful smile while my brain scrambles for the right words is exhausting. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought behind the gesture—I just wish it didn’t come wrapped in so much social anxiety.
As I reflect on what Christmas has looked like for me over the decades, I’ve come to appreciate the beauty in other people’s traditions through photos and videos shared online (they bring me to tears, I’m not kidding). I love the creative chaos of Elf on the Shelf antics, and the heartfelt rituals that parents plan for their kiddos that make the season special for them. This year, however, marks the first Christmas I’ll be spending without family, and it’s been a journey of figuring out what traditions feel meaningful to me as a late-30-something grown-ass woman. I’m learning that Christmas doesn’t have to look a certain way to be special; it just has to FEEL right for me. That said, while I adore living vicariously through everyone else’s holiday cheer, please don’t invite me to your Christmas party… unless you have really good toilet paper.
