My Holidays Were Never Safe until I Met You
By: Emee D.
Tags: Trauma, Trauma Recovery, Mixed Race, Ableism, Disability

I don’t know how I managed it, but I ended up being the complete antithesis of every member of my biological family, save for my grandmother. When I was a child, I often thought I was adopted; and being mixed race, many others thought I was, too. In appearance and in personality, I was frequently told by strangers that I did not match. As I got older though, it became clear that I was indeed my grandmother’s grandchild.

Every positive part of me I attribute to the petite Austrian woman with a sharp attitude, the sole safe person in my household. She was a perfectionist, loving, kind, and solid in her beliefs, yet surprisingly open minded. Her perfectionism and unrelenting love were highlighted during the holidays.

As a child there was always a dark shroud over my household, thick and looming. I lived with varying levels of terror at all times. Our family holiday traditions brought bits of joy stained with abuse, racism, and ableism, mainly from my grandfather and mother, though as time carried on my siblings became vicious as well . Through it all, my grandmother worked tirelessly and without complaint to make holidays special, and I took pride in helping her as I could. She could be described as a modest immigrant housewife who took it upon herself to raise her underprivileged grandchildren when their parents failed them. But looking back now, she seemed more like an unfettered warrior who saved me every day, if only to bring me a few moments of joy and peace in an unending war inside our small home.

The trauma my family caused through my two decades with them resulted in severe anxiety and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Though I left them six years ago, I am still easily startled, I am still untrusting and guarded, and I still have nightmares of my grandfather and mother attacking me. It also caused my memories to be tangled and scattered. Some of the worst parts of my childhood are permanently burned into my mind, while others I can’t recall, thanks to my brain’s attempts to protect me. My memories of holidays, particularly Christmas are the same, tattered from a life lived starkly contrasted from the one I am building now.

Four years ago I met my partner, Eric. After I left my family for the sake of my safety and survival, I had little desire to belong to another one. I had a small group of close friends who I considered my bonded family of choice, but they were all my age. Parents, grandparents, cousins, and the like were something I wanted nothing to do with. Families were messy, families were complicated, and anyone who reminded me of my mother (basically any middle aged white woman) made me instantly uncomfortable.

The first time I met my boyfriend’s parents, I walked into their house and they greeted me with smiles along with an elderly, wiggly Wheaton named Doodle. They seemed nice enough, and I was thrilled about the sweet dog, but I was more concerned about trying to figure out if this guy actually liked me or not. He was reserved and impossible to read, but he was handsome and had a similar sarcastic, dry humor to my own. The rest of that day was spent in his basement, awkwardly but eventually getting to the point where we were snuggling for the first time while watching his favorite romance film: The Big Lebowski (no really, it is a romance film. No one would go that far to get a carpet back unless they were deeply in love with it).

A year later my boyfriend and I were in a solid relationship, not to mention my first healthy relationship. To my surprise, it was also easy to become close with my boyfriend’s mother, a brilliant and bubbly woman who was a lawyer by day and a singer by night. I was never looking for a replacement mother; I was perfectly happy being motherless, as the only alternative I was given proved to be worse. At best, I wanted Eric’s mother to at least tolerate me because they were so close, but his mother warmly welcomed me into their lives. At first, I was suspicious. I told myself she was faking it, or maybe she felt so sorry for me, the disabled, mixed, orphan girl, that she saw me as a charity case. Though I hate to admit it, I believed this for a long time.

When Christmas came around, my boyfriend warned me that in his family, Christmas was not just a holiday, but rather a multi-day event. During the week of Christmas, we had his birthday, a Christmas Eve dinner with extended family, actual Christmas, a second Christmas with other extended family, and a celebration for New Year’s. This was all foreign to me, especially the way they celebrated on Christmas day.

That first year, I got to his parent’s house in the late morning and we were each given overflowing stockings filled with small gifts and candy. I had never even had a stocking before, but I found it charming. Under the massive, real Christmas tree was an impressive pile of presents like I had never seen. We had a large brunch which was made to be completely safe with my allergies and dietary restrictions, then the present opening began. During my childhood, my siblings and I would quickly tear through all the presents in minutes. With Eric’s family, the process was slow and thoughtful. One person got a present, opened it, then chose one for someone else. This was done because his family believed that getting a present yourself was not the best part of the holiday; rather, watching someone else light up when receiving their gift was.

I enjoyed our first Christmas together, but the whole day I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. My boyfriend’s family was just happy to be together, reveling in the giving, the treats, and the expressions of love and appreciation. I was astonished by the peace. I missed my grandmother and her family traditions dearly, but I did not miss that dark shroud that dimmed the glow of the holiday, and that kept me in fear. It was one of the first times I realized the darkness I was raised in was no longer around me, but instead was now only inside me, staining every new and positive experience I had.

Trauma never fully disappears, and the holidays can often aggravate it. Most holidays bring me tears at some point as I miss my grandmother and still struggle to understand the family whose abuse will take a lifetime to cope with.

My grandmother would have loved the holidays I am fortunate enough to celebrate now, and every day I remember that her love and kindness is the reason I have become the person I am. She is also the reason I survived through the darkness long enough to find my way out of it, into a life where the light has never been brighter.