TW: Trigger warning: Anxiety, suicidal/homicidal thoughts.
This time of year nearly sends me over the edge. It’s not the season, per se. I don’t suppose it is for most of us who suffer anxiety, shame, guilt, grief, pain surrounding the holidays. There’s way more to it than that. It’s not even the materialism of the season. It’s those deep down memories, whether they be happy or sad that creep in and consume our very existence.
For some, it’s the fact that we’ve lost loved ones and can hardly bare to be reminded of their passing; barely contain the thought they’re no longer here to share such a festive time of year with us. That carries its own pain and sense of grief.
In my case, there are constant intruding thoughts that pound my brain and I can’t escape them. In the distant past I went to alcohol to numb them. I don’t take that route anymore. Now, I still have thoughts of homicide and suicide this time of year. I should express them and will when I go to group on Monday and then again on Tuesday when I see my therapist. You have to be careful how you relay these feelings of terror or you might wind up on the psyche unit. It’s the worst time of year for that, as anyone who’s spent time in the hospital over the holidays knows.
There was not much love in my house growing up. My sister and I fought constantly in what’s referred to as the trickle-down effect. Our father, a miserable bastard, treated our mother like shit; she hated me and I beat my only sibling, my sister, up. Believe the family dog paid his dues too. Two days ago, B, little sis, and I got together and it wasn’t pretty. It was supposed to be, we both thought. It’s the second time she’s reached out to meet me alone and I think I know why we don’t do it more often. We wound up ‘reminiscing’ about our fucked up childhood(s).
The most instrumental observation we shared was we never saw any expression of love or endearment shared between our parents. Not a kiss on the cheek or a hug; no holding hands or an ‘I love you’ ever seen or heard. My therapist claims that means we were raised without love. I’m thinking she’s right.
So, I have trouble with trust, intimacy, and a slew of problems most of my trans brothers and psychiatric patient friends share. Christmas night, 1973, I was hauled off in an ambulance to the nearest hospital. There were no local units for people freaking out then. It turned out to be a panic attack. There wasn’t much known about them back then, either.
My father got drunk, threatened to kill us all with his deer hunting rifle and my mother insisted she would take B and I to a motel to get away from him. When I swore I wasn’t going ANYWHERE with her I ran to a friend’s house to stay overnight to get away from my idiot parents and that night my friend’s father made me give him a blow job downstairs while his wife and my friend were upstairs watching T.V. Merry Christmas, Sam.
Believe in God; don’t believe. Something’s kept me going all these years. I thank God for my partner, G, non-biological family members, friends, therapies, etc. Without you I literally would not be here. For anyone having difficulty during this time of year, I reach out to you and I’m a hugger. I am sending you virtual hugs. You know I believe in angels and miracles and I’m shooting up a prayer for each and every one of you. For my trans brothers and sisters, I send you the best because I’ve saved the best for last.