Oh, Christmas Tree

On reclaiming once-stolen joy

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The holiday season has always been a special time for me. It’s when my joy comes alive, and I get to spoil the people I love with food, notes, and gifts. I love nothing more than when all the Christmas lights go up, the peppermint goes on the menu, and the Midwest snow is imminent.

Christmas was the best time of the year when I was a kid because it was the one time my relationship with my parents felt okay. We decorated the tree together, ate ham my grandmother sent us, and gathered around to be excited about the things we got each other from The Christmas Bureau. But most importantly, decorating the Christmas tree was sacred to me.

One year, my grandma (who I only saw once or twice a year) sent a bunch of presents, and it was rumored that she sent me a check to start saving to move out on my own because she knew my parent's place was a toxic place for me to live.

This particular year was challenging for my family, and I came home one day to an already-decorated Christmas tree. My mom had done it without me, and my heart was shattered. Then, I woke up Christmas morning to all of my presents unwrapped and sloppily re-wrapped, with the check likely stolen. That changed my relationship with Christmas, and my parents, forever.

I’m about two months into EMDR, and the target I’m working on right now is when my mom kidnapped me in the third grade and moved me to a completely different state with some man she was with, even though she was still married to my father. I have never been able to identify the feelings that come up when I think of this moment. The only thing that comes up is the image of the guy’s grey Cadillac that picked us up from the Drury Inn off of Shawnee Mission Parkway next to the Denny’s I’d have my first cigarette in years later. I now know that this is when I felt my sense of safety being taken away.

Christmas was almost ruined for me. The following year after the unwrapping debacle, I almost didn’t decorate the tree. I had finally moved out, and I like to think that buying this Christmas tree was the first time I created my own sense of safety – my own home. Each year, I get re-excited, and the Christmas tree goes up earlier and earlier because I cannot wait to partake in my favorite ritual.

Over the last few days, I’ve been in Austin, Texas. I surprised my best friend because they told me when they visited me for Thanksgiving that they were having a party on the first night of Hanukkah. It’s really important to me to not only partake in my own traditions but learn about the traditions of those whom I love.

We all sat in a circle, listened to Nic’s favorite Hanukkah story (Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins), and ate matzo ball soup. At the same time, Bud prepared the fry bread, honoring their Indigenous identity. I can’t describe the joy of seeing the people I love the most come together to honor parts of their little selves, selves we all have complicated relationships with, to create safety not only for who we are not, but who we are surrounded by.

There have been a lot of things taken from me. My sense of safety, my childhood, and honestly, The holidays used to be when I remembered my parents didn’t know me or anything about me. They always send me gifts I don’t need or want, and I am rarely (if ever) asked if I like anything specific. This isn’t to say I expect gifts from them, but this is to say it’s a recurring theme in my life with them. They don’t ask me what I want– or need– because they simply can’t and don’t know how to. This is a truth I’ve come to terms with.

Putting up the Christmas tree is, like everything I do, an ode to little me. Celebrating with people who actively choose to see one another is a declaration that says: We can gift ourselves what has been stolen from us. We can reclaim once-stolen joy. After all these years, I can create my own sense of safety*. My body doesn’t always remember that but here I am– reminding myself that I did this. I love the holidays, and no one can take that away from me.

*I want to acknowledge creating safety for oneself is also rooted in privilege. I want to honor this because our positionality allows others particular safety to which others do not have access. May we all work for everyone to have the same safety.

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A post shared by Casey Tanner, MA, LCPC, CST (@queersextherapy)

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You can find last month’s episode of the Healing Field Notes podcast here. I talk about taking cues from the season, how not to become our mothers, and share some writing advice. If you’d like to ask a question anonymously, you can fill out this Google Form. I’ll return to recording in January.

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