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.

I Have Hope

Hope.

I have hope this morning.


For me this is a fleeting thing. As quickly passing as a random thought. It fades out of my grasp as mysteriously as a dream. I can write down all of its twists and turns while it hangs tenuously in my mind‘s eye. But after a few moments, even the words on paper cannot quite bring into focus the images that I was so desperate to record.


So I hold on tight to that feeling while its there. So tight that it hurts. So tight and with such a fear of it’s loss that my body seems to cramp with the effort. Perhaps the desperation and crushing hold only makes matters worse, less tenable.


I'm not sure what it is I have hope for, but I have it. Perhaps it's the hope that things will be better. Life will change. Walls won't crumble and leave me exposed. I will have a place of safety that isn't suffocating, not claustrophobic and the air will be fresh rather than stale. I can open the drapes and enjoy a potted plant. I will go into the yard and actually pause and feel the sun. I will go Christmas shopping in the daylight.


I have hope that family will see me as an addition to the foundation rather than a weakness to the insulation. That they will think of me as a help not a hindrance. That my countinence on a bad day will not keep loved ones away on a good day. That when I come to mind it’s my smile they think of rather than my frown. They will not be a ashamed of the lazy cow in the back room. I will not forever be a whisper. I have HOPE that they will someday, stop punishing me for being me.


I have hope that extended family will not murmur my name as if I’m in a house full of cats on a hill. That they will not hold my offense against those that surround me. That they will not confuse mental health with intelligence. That they will research instead of assume. That they won’t look to Hollywood for an example. That they will not forget the girl I was. I pray that they do not think me short on faith or failing in devotion. Someday they won’t think “call before you come” means “don’t call us, we’ll call you”. I hope that they will discover that I like to be part of their communications online, even though I don’t go to family reunions, holidays or talk on the phone. I have HOPE that they will someday, stop punishing me for being me.


I have hope that the world will forgive me for what I am.



I have hope. I have hope.

Agoraphobia and Manipulation

Yesterday morning I was held hostage for a total of three hours. At first I thought I was being reached out to in love. You know, I need someone to talk to so I will reach out and this person will comfort, support and just listen for awhile. But that’s not what was going on.

It was pretty clear about an hour and a half into the conversation that I was being manipulated. They wanted me to “fill them in” on someone else’s actions, sayings, etcetera. To me this is voyeurism, it’s no different then dressing up at night in all black and spying through someone’s windows.

That moment of recognizing I was being manipulated is when the alarms started. Can you hear them? If you can’t hear them, can you recall the sound? Those are the alarms of caution, it sounds a bit like a fire house bell from earlier years: DingDingDing! Then there’s the alarm of manipulation. This sound is a bit like a vinyl record scratching to a halt. You think, ‘Huh? What was that? This isn’t a “reach-out” it’s a “reach-in”. That sound hurts. Then the church bells chime in. The bells warning you to be supportive but cautious. Remember, you love this person and they must be feeling desperate to use your relationship to spy on another person.

Somewhere in there the agoraphobic bells start ringing like tinnitus. They are muffled and broken. Panic is glass shattering and self-pity is sucking mud against your shoes. Walls going up is the sound of metal leggos snapping together and the need to get out of the conversation is a prayer chanted over in over in a silent whisper.

Eventually, the conversation ended and I sat back and shook and cried and played the conversation over and over in my head. When I finally determined to calm down I concentrated on breathing . But it seemed my chest expanded but the air was not getting in, just a thick goop that made it even harder to breath. I took a valium and slowly came down from that place that is a pit over the edge of a cliff. First you climb out of the pit, then you peek over the edge of the cliff and with concentration and lots of visualization the ground you are clinging to is just a step above the rest of the world. You step off, and if it’s a good day, it wasn’t all an illusion and you don’t find you’ve stepped off the edge of an abyss and will fall, sinking for days, weeks or even months.

You see for me, part of my fear is finding a way out of, not just situations, but also conversations that are disturbing. Sometimes I'll talk very fast, to hog the conversation, so the other person can't direct things. Sometimes I'll blank out and just smile and nod, you can't do that online or on the phone. Sometimes I disassociate completely and couldn't tell you what I was wearing at the time. There's a fear that making an excuse will be obvious and that person won't like me anymore or will turn others against me. It's a paranoia of being trapped in a conversation I don't like and lacking the confidence to just gracefully bow out.


Say what you will of my faith, but that’s what keeps me taking that step off the “little ledge”.

For an agoraphobic a betrayal in trust is a betrayal that sticks with you for a very long time. It doesn’t end your love for a person, but it edits every conversation and moderates every action from then on. I will continue to love this person and be their friend and even support them when they need it, but I will never again interact with them without suspicion. It’s not, I don’t think, a hard heart or an inability to forgive. It’s survival. People that try to manipulate you are manipulating others as well.

My Own Judgment to Fall

Any minute now he’s going to wake up. I’ll hear the bathroom door open and close and I’ll know he’s awake and it will start all over again today. He’s completely unaware of the fear, the tears the depression and the anxiety that he evokes. What it is he thinks I can’t even imagine.

There it is. The gentle slam that starts the day.

She went to bed a half an hour ago. She tries to go to bed right before he gets up so that she can avoid as much time with him herself as possible. She thinks her hours are just “screwy” like mine. But I can see her following in my footsteps to avoid him. She spends almost all of her waking hours either waiting on him or listening to him talk about what he’s reading in the bible, or in here with me, avoiding the rest of the house. Because that’s his domain, his to rule and command. She’s completely unaware of what she’s doing. She loves him completely and can never understand why he says and does such things. She tells me she is sorry for him. “He must be suffering so much inside to be like this.” I’ve heard her tell him I needed her so that she could get away from him.

I try to stay silent. I try so hard. But I fail. God will judge me someday. While I’ve never told her I wanted her free of him. She knows I do. She knows I think God is unfair to demand adultery the only escape from an abusive marriage.

Then again, if she had married anyone else, they would have told her to send me to the curb long ago.

For this I wait for my own judgment to fall. I’m not one of these that think the “get out of hell” card is played equally for everyone. I believe while forgiveness may be freely granted, so too will retributions be issued out liberally and without respect to position. No more tears, is not a shampoo for bad behavior in eternity. And, I know there is fault here of my own. But I find perverse pleasure in knowing that just because he’s forgiven doesn’t mean God won’t hold him accountable in the hereafter.