The Hauntings of Thanksgiving

Holidays are the hardest time of year.

I’ve said this in the past and I’ve heard so many people with depression, anxiety etcetera say the same thing. It’s a uniquely painful time I think for agoraphobics.

It’s as if the spirit of the holidays has fled me. Perhaps I left it behind somewhere. There was a time when I could grab a hold of it, even if just for a short time, eventually I got caught up in the wave. Moving through thanksgiving with a smile and even a sparkle. It's not as if I ever had any responsiblilites. A proud gen-xer, never married with no children left me free of all pressure related to throwing a good party.

But long before the fear got the better of me I disliked the run-up leading to holidays. The crowded stores, the cacophony of overlapping conversations and the always mad rush to “get ready”. In our nuclear home a lost shoe or cake pan could lead to thirty minutes of drama. Weeks of procrastination meant tortured last hours before finally piling into the car. My parents and siblings seemed unaffected by all the self-wrought stress, and even today face events with the same last minute sprint. To their credit, they seem to come out relatively unscathed.


I quit leaving the home for holidays about ten years ago. Initially I thought it would be a temporary thing, surely I would join the family the next year for Thanksgiving and it seemed nearly everyone at one point or another had had to skip a holiday for work or traveling to a spouses for that special day. So it seemed to me it should be forgiven if I skip that year, and I assume it generally was.

I always insisted that Mom go about the holiday as if I didn’t live with her. She and Papa went without me when he was still with us. Then her new husband accompanied her and all was well for me. Well, that's what I tell myself. Now she’s not able to travel home alone and at this point in her life I should be the woman preparing and planning and making it all wonderful for a room full of children scuffling about peeking around corners in anticipation. Instead I keep the spirit holed up and stuffed down, brought out just long enough for a quick prayer.

There were of course holidays that I enjoyed in that other life. That life and time when the spirit propped me up and kept me going. Even when the occasion was a huge get together, I usually thrived once things got going. Although the run up to an occasion often left me crippled with anxiety and fear internally, once we drove up to a loved one’s home the spirit seemed to step in. My fear was crumpled up, stuffed into a tin box and put away to enjoy after the party.

Our family is pretty big and I can remember the table. That moment of shock I always had when I would look down the length of the table and over to the other table and wonder at all these happy people who genuinely loved me and I loved them, each and every one. The camaraderie. The prayer of thanks. The endless procession of food being passed around until the portions being shoveled onto the plate got smaller and smaller as the evidence of our bounty took up more and more space on my dish. The spirit of thanksgiving taking its place at the table with us.

I still love them one and all. Old and young and big and small. With their neurotic tendencies and all their idiosyncrasies, they were beautiful and intelligent, and they were mine. Mine to talk with, laugh with, share with and reminisce with. Mine to defend, amuse and listen to. Mine.


The women could compete on Top Chef with pride and the men could shuffle furniture about with the ease, if not finesse, of any fancy moving company. And yes, they could veg out on football too. When my uncle got that first big screen TV I think he may have crossed into godhood there for a while. The smells were magnificent, the deserts were classics and the smiles were thrown about like confetti. Who could ever ever argue that this was not what the holiday was all about?

But they didn’t know what it took for me to get to this point. Or perhaps, I suppose, they did. Odds are, at least some of them did and do. Because when I look back as an adult I’m able to imagine it from their eyes.

The women who started preparing weeks, even months ahead with phone calls, recipes and schedules. Always efficient in the kitchen with such grace and dexterity. Turning one and two-butted kitchens into dance floors with seemingly choreographed hips, weaving in and around ovens, burners, cutting boards and china cabinets. How often I wonder, did they wish they could hire a caterer or get a baby sitter? Did they ever resent dressing up, cooking like slaves then washing dishes? Eventually doling out desserts and finally keeping the children happy and entertained while the men watched football, a movie, played a game, napped or chatted? Did they face the holiday under two conflicting minds, one of bliss and one of silent endurance? If so, they never showed it.

If they had known that I was of two minds myself, would we have shared? Could they have known that every moment was a wonder shock for me.

To see such unity, such love, such selflessness.

Could they tell that I was insecure and afraid of embarrassing myself. Had they guessed that my chatter was a ruse to convince them all I was happy and contented, even successful? How many of them were suffering to the same extent of their own demons forever whispering they were fooling no one? I was sure that every eye saw past the composure to my secret self, slumped in a corner and hiding from scrutiny?

Can it really be that all of this actually shares a couch in my mind with all my favorite memories. That place where I hold all the precious mementos of family and love and warmth. These doubts and fears and anxieties were once blanketed by that love and unity. When did the negative become the dominate in my mind? How could they win over the day? The spirit kept the demons at bay until I was home alone. Here I could pick up my depression once more and hold it close without fear of discovery. How could home be a refuge then? How can that, this be an escape?

I have Mom, but we were all meant for more.

I miss them all so much. My family. My strength. There’s an occasional email and “hi” sent with a pic. But I’ve managed to keep them all away with my walls. Building the ramparts with such zeal and enthusiasm that Thanksgiving has become a plate wrapped in cellophane or delivered down the hall.

I’m still thankful for all those wonderful things, all those bigger than life memories. I’m still grateful for my family, home and freedom. I appreciate the spirit of the holidays more and more even as it leave me behind to my fear.