The Forced March to Happiness

The holidays are almost here... and so is the stress that comes with it.

This is essay #98

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Susan Speaks now has a community 2428 strong! I’ve met some terrific people who are now friends and I couldn't be more grateful.

But, before you go any further, if you LOVE the holidays, maybe you shouldn’t read this. We all have different feelings about this time of year. This is my take on what’s become an emotionally draining season. 🤷🏼‍♀️

I have a very close friend who calls this time of year ‘The Forced March to Happiness’. For many of us, that’s a very accurate description.

With every passing year, I find myself dreading December. It’s expensive, guilt-ridden, stressful, and packed with expectations. (insert Bah-Humbug 😂)

My best intentions always seem to be too much... or not enough.

My awkwardness comes into full bloom this time of year.

But it wasn’t always like this.  

This is my grandmother Nellie Lee (who I try to channel because she was such a damn fine woman… truly ahead of her time). She’s sitting in the living room at the farm. This photo instantly takes me back to everything wonderful about Christmas time, where I was the beneficiary of all the good things this time of year is supposed to offer.

Christmas at the farm was always happy and safe. My abusive father was on his best behavior. My mother acted like she had never been struck by him a day in her life and that we were a happy little family. 🙄

But the rest of the relatives knew better… and stayed silent.

My grandad Paul would cut a scraggly, sticky, little cedar tree that filled the house with a marvelous aroma which made up for the pain of trying to decorate the forbidding branches. And on those painful branches we would hang homemade ornaments.

My grandmother, aunt, and mother were ‘oh so crafty’. They each had box after box of yarn, beads, fabric, plastic canvas, glue guns, scissors, tapes, strings, and ribbons… and they would compare their supplies like giggling robbers who found most of it in a sale bin at Joann’s Fabrics.

My Aunt Kay was a hairdresser and a childless cat lady before it was in vogue. When she hosted Christmas, we had to get dressed up because her house was spotless and sort of ritzy. (I think she had OCD because the kitchen floor was so polished, you could almost skate on it.) She always had a fancy flocked tree and exotic ornaments, many that she made.

Yup… that’s me on the floor in the foreground!

And Christmas cards were a given! The mailman brought stacks of cards to our door. And most of them had a handwritten, newsy note inside. Every card was read, revered, and put on display on windowsills or a bookcase.

My appearance on the family Christmas card at 3 months old,

Let’s talk about the FOOD!

There was always a homemade feast straight from the garden, and a lot of fuss in a crowded kitchen to get it all on the table. Everyone took their tasks seriously, from filling the water glasses to getting that green jello mold on the table. The aroma in the house was rich and intoxicating.

And before we ate, there was always a prayer that my grandad would say. When it came from him, I believed it.

Never again will I taste a thick, homemade egg noodle smothered in beefy goodness like Nellie Lee would make. Or the freshly baked bread, yeasty with the perfect crust. Real mashed potatoes had a lump here and there, and they were grown right outside the window.

There was ham, beef, and maybe a goose shot by grandad, that came with a warning to avoid the buckshot. Relish trays with sad little carrots and tough celery. And something with mayonnaise, marshmallows, fruit and nuts? Green beans with bacon. A lettuce “salad” with a few carrots.  

And. So. Much. PIE.

Homemade Gifts.

Everything was wrapped in crinkly paper from the last holiday that had been folded with precision and stored away to use again. Same with the satiny bows saved from past years giving. (And we were expected to pull those bows off carefully so we could use them again next year.) Most of the gifts we exchanged were handmade creations made of yarn or fabric. A big deal was made over every item, oooing and ahhing, assuring the giver it was absolutely the finest, most clever thing they ever received.  

And it was.  

But that was then and this is now.

People I know are feeling the devastating emptiness that the recent election brought, anticipating the incoming dictatorship will gut life as we know it. Many are cutting back on their spending since the future of our economy seems unpredictable. There’s a real underlying feeling of fear.

Can we agree that the holidays are not relaxing? There are usually many people to consider, with too many places to be at the same time. We drive like maniacs, cars packed with kids, maybe the dog, and all the presents to visit parents and grandparents, in-laws and siblings and friends, trying to be on time for every visit, scheduled with the precision of an atomic clock.

Another cause for stress. 😳

Then there’s the guilt, shame, and dread you feel knowing you might have to sit next to your arrogant MAGA brother. Or your weird ass cousin. 🙄

The Hallmark Christmas movies? Please. My cynical heart can’t take it.

A gift you made yourself has been replaced with a gift card to god knows where. (Not that you have a lot of time to hand make anything as we’re all working to just survive.)

I remember the feeling from loving grandparents who made the season something to look forward to. It was genuine with no agenda.

Three year old me in the plaid dress up front. 😂

My survival techniques this time of year include travel. I’m currently in Alaska till the end of the year with dear friend, escaping the madness. I stock up on good books, binge watch PBS or Netflix, good Pinot, longer time in the gym, and sleep. Lots of precious sleep.

Given all we’ve been through in America (and it hasn’t even gotten started yet), listen… if you’re lucky enough to find some joy in this time of year, then revel in that shit. I’m a tad jealous of you out there with loving families who are somewhat functional and seem to like each other.

But be patient with those of us who are hanging on till January.

We’re hoping to not get trampled in The Forced March to Happiness.