Spending the Holidays Without Your Parents

I’ve been holiday-crazy since I can remember. It didn’t matter which one—Christmas was my favorite holiday, just like Halloween was my favorite, just like Thanksgiving, Easter, New Years, my birthday. I reveled in the overwhelming joy at Christmas, the excitement of Halloween, the hearty appreciation during Thanksgiving. Conversations got deeper, people got sappier. It was an excuse to love people loudly and without reserve.

My first holiday season without my parents had an undeniable lack of spirit. We’d had a major falling out in August—I’m talking no communication whatsoever, avoiding calling them mom and dad at all costs. I tried my hardest to pretend they didn’t exist. I stopped having parents for all intents and purposes just in time for Halloween and Thanksgiving to make me squirm and wonder what I was supposed to do for the holidays. Did I visit them? Did I call them? Did I transform into Mr. Scrooge and hole up in my dorm until the entire holiday season was over? Thankfully, my then-fiancé invited me to celebrate with his family, making my decision easy, but there was something off about the whole thing.

Thanksgiving was weird, since I hardly knew anyone I was celebrating with except for him, his sister, and his parents. My favorite part about that holiday has always been the philosophical and intellectual conversations my family had over dinner, and I don’t think I said anything less superficial all day than “nice to meet you; the casserole tastes great!” I didn’t pig out either, because I wasn’t quite comfortable enough with them yet to go all out without shame. It was sort of depressing to say the least, but nothing about that day gripped my heart and twisted it as much as Christmas did.

Christmas is the only holiday my entire family goes all out for. Every Earley’s living room is littered in perfectly wrapped presents (we’re all pretty anal about the wrapping paper), cheesy garland, a stocking for everyone—including the animals—and a massive Christmas tree. Each tree is smothered in sentimental, hand-made ornaments hung during an hour-long event while blasting old Christmas music and rocking red, itchy Santa hats. Everyone is nicer to each other than usual, because there’s a constant giddy feeling in the air. Throw-downs over the living room remote are postponed, chores are done willingly. Even the cats are less grumpy.

On Christmas Eve, my parents would let us open one of our presents—usually new soft, Christmas-y pajamas for tomorrow morning’s present-opening pictures, but sometimes there were punching balloons and rock ‘em sock ‘em robots. After that, we’d settle in to watch the same version of A Christmas Carol that we watched every year, sipping on a massive glass of Egg Nog my dad had seasoned with nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves. If it were cold enough, we would have a fire going, and we turned off every one of the lights except for the twinkling Christmas ones strung on the tree and hung around the wall casings. For nineteen years, we would even leave out a glass of egg nog and slices of Cracker Barrel’s extra sharp cheddar cheese for my dad, who still liked to pretend it was for the jolly old man himself. Every Christmas Eve with my family was a night full of so much holiday magic I could wind up believing in Santa again at the drop of a red, triangular hat.

That year, however, I didn’t do any of that. Instead, I spent the holiday at a spacious house in Florida sprinkled in seashells and stuffed fish with my then-fiancé and his sister, parents, and grandpa. We watched NASCAR, played games, scrolled through Facebook on our phones. We exchanged all of our gifts before even going to bed on Christmas Eve night. Somehow, opening presents that late at night with little to look forward to the next day just felt wrong. When we got up on Christmas day, we went to a lengthy church service centered around the baby Jesus and congregated with a lot of other people I’d never seen before. After that, we went back to the house and had a massive potluck in the afternoon and exchanged more gifts with the extended family who I had at least met, but didn’t know well enough to have a decent conversation with. There was literally no holiday music, no egg nog, seasoned or not, no Christmas movies, no “A Christmas Carol,” not even the Muppets version. There was barely a tree. It was way too bright there, way too hot, way too lacking in the Christmas spirit, music, and decorations. Way too different. I still managed to have a decent time, and I really did appreciate spending the holidays with people I cared about, but it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t get myself even mildly in the Christmas spirit for the entire month of December.

That’s how I found myself in the wrong family’s bathroom on Christmas day, balled up on the cold, blue tiled floor and sobbing into my arm as quietly as I knew how, suddenly very aware of the hole that walking away from my parents had left in me. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to reverse time, to forget all the bad for a day, to be with my family and feel a level of joy I hadn’t experienced in what felt like forever. Up until that moment it had been easy to pretend that it didn’t bother me, to smile when people offered me their condolences and tell them “I’m not sorry. It’s fine, really.” It was easy to pretend like I wasn’t pretending. But it was Christmas Day, and I was three states away from the two people who had held the most special part in my heart, and I couldn’t pretend anymore.

Tears streaming down my face, I picked up my phone, opened iMessage, and started a group text. “I know things are weird right now,” I started, “but in spite of everything I just wanted to say Merry Christmas and I love you.” I hit send and stared at my phone anxiously, stomach in knots, and when my dad sent back “I love you too, Princess. Merry Christmas.” I lost it all over again.

It wasn’t until then that I realized how important traditions are to me, to have things that I knew would always be a constant in my chaotic life. The holidays were so special for me because with them came guaranteed happiness, a warm and loving family, pungent holiday spirit and sweet, sweet routine. And after being away from my parents, my sister, my dogs, and my home for so long, after exchanging such cruel and unforgivable words with not only them but also my extended family, when the most important and sentimental constant I knew disappeared, I crumbled like an overdone Christmas cookie.

This isn’t to say that no one can survive the holidays without their family. Difficult as it was, I technically managed to do it, and even though coming back and spending it with them this year won’t feel nearly the same as it used to, I know I’ll be alright. I’ve accepted that the holidays may never hold the same excitement and warmth for me. I’ve accepted that there’s still a tentative wall up between them and me. If a few years ago you had tried to tell me I would be only popping in for an hour or two on Thanksgiving and Christmas, maybe not even celebrating holidays like Easter or New Year’s with my family, I would have laughed in your face and called you crazy. As a kid, I was that person who worried about whether I’d ever be dating someone on the holidays because I just wouldn’t have been willing to spend it with them. “Holidays are for family and family only,” I’d say.

The possibility of a time in which holidays wouldn’t be as big of a deal to me literally never even began to cross my mind. It’s actually a very uncomfortable feeling for me, even now that that time has come. I don’t like not bouncing off the walls on “Christmas 1st” (aka December 1st), or blasting Christmas music every single day until the 25th, or being fine with never putting up any more decorations than the Christmas lights I perpetually have up in my room as a night light. I don’t like not being able to tell people that I’m a Christmas freak, not having five ugly Christmas sweaters in my closet, being entirely uninterested in the Macy’s Day Parade even if I’m with other people. I hate missing out on the Christmas spirit and not exactly crying about it.

Because something that used to be that big of a deal to me is very hard to let go of, especially if that includes letting go of the same people who made it so special in the first place. It’s like trying to put out a forest fire with one 16oz bottle of water and being apathetic about it. It’s like trying to keep from eating anything while standing in a bakery at the same time everything comes out of the oven. It’s like trying to fall asleep while being sucked down river rapids. It’s nearly impossible, but you have to try.

It can be haunting, grueling, and emotional. It will, in more ways than one, strip you of your childhood, your innocence. Possibly even your happiness. Spending the holidays without your parents can be the hardest thing you ever do, if you’re anything like me. And if you are, I hope you never have to try.