It’s beginning to look a lot like debt and uncomfortable family gatherings: Part 2

 December 25, 2015

 2:20 p.m.

 I can’t stand it anymore. Each breath comes in a short, shallow burst, carefully taken in through the mouth. This woman fucking stinks, and I don’t mean in the figurative sense. I’m not sure if it’s her general odor, or perhaps her ancient, rotting breath, but every time I inhale it smells like I’ve got my nose halfway up a doberman’s ass. 

  Does anyone else even notice?

  I know I can’t be the only one who hears her muttering under her breath. It’s unintelligible, presumably nonsense, but the witchy murmurings are definitely putting me ill at ease. Mind you, I probably wouldn’t think much of it if I could JUST FUCKING BREATHE.

 It’s the journey back from the movie theater, a family Christmas tradition I’ve only recently been introduced to. This year’s selection: the much-anticipated Star Wars VII. Being the smallest, I’m stuck straddling the awkward hump of a middle seat. Jessica (my stepsister) sits on my left, and the Festering Wonder, pressing a lot too close, sits on my right. 

Right turn, screeching, bright lights, the angry scream of metal tearing. 

I blink, and it’s gone. 

We’ve been in the car for what feels like hours, since the conversation died almost the moment we entered the vehicle and now we’re stuck on a loop of discussing how beautiful it is outside. I’ve taken to staring absently at my phone, unable to actually use it since  scrolling through my profanity-riddled Facebook would no doubt ruffle the squeaky clean Benson feathers. 

 By the time we pull into the driveway, I’ve conceived at least 47 different scenarios I’d rather be part of than spend one more second choking on Aunt Charlotte’s halitosis. I’ve just begun to picture number 48 (getting butt-fucked by a harpoon gun) when the passenger door opens and sweet, fresh air flows across my face. 

  It takes every ounce of self-control to not throw myself from the car and kiss the ground, sobbing with relief, but I do exit post-haste and make a beeline for the garage.

 10:45 p.m.

  Robby’s asleep beside me, the air’s cloudy, and in the light of the television I can see trails of smoke dancing across the pixelated palette. After experiencing some awkward moments and a general sensation of discomfort, I can’t really say I didn’t enjoy myself. I’m definitely a black sheep, but I was loved and I was welcomed. It wasn’t really a sense I’d had towards family since…well not since both my grandmothers had passed.

  It certainly wasn’t the best Christmas I’d had, but it was almost like a healing balm on a festering wound. Perhaps dreading the holidays didn’t have to be part of my yearly routine. At the very least, I knew I’d have at least one person around who’d make it special.

  I lean down and give Robby’s forehead a quick peck before I snuggle down under the blankets and silence King Henry’s latest affair. The day of pretending and silencing the myriad of inappropriate jokes was through. Sadly that meant it was time to rejoin the work force, but oh well. Can’t have everything.

Fin.

It’s beginning to look a lot like debt and uncomfortable family gatherings: Part 1

December 25th, 2015

4:45 a.m.

    I wake up again, cold, slimy sweat clamming my palms and beading beneath my shirt collar. Closing my eyes against the images that bleed with reality, I clench my fists and begin the routine.

   Deep breath in….

   Long sigh out…

   “It’s. Not. Real.” I murmur it softly, almost as if I’m afraid to say anything aloud and jinx the spell. “Just a dream. Not real.”

   The buzz vibrating across my skin’s surface finally subsided along with the vibrant images that had plagued my nightmares. Cautiously, I open one eye, and thankfully it’s met with only darkness. A long sigh bubbles past my lips as I sag back against the pillows, finally free from the Labyrinth of my own mind. For now. 

    Welcome to my morning ritual, just as important to the start of my day as gargling mouthwash and downing half a pot of coffee. Not necessarily in that order. It’s not something I really talk about, considering if everyone knew the extent of my crazy I’d probably be bundled up in the VIP straightjacket meant for nut-house regulars. Besides, it’s manageable enough, and who really wants to explain that they’ve got PTSD even though they’ve never been overseas? It’s a touchy subject, and while I can explain if absolutely necessary, I’d also rather not.

   My hand skims over the surface of the comforters, searching blindly until one finger bumps against sleek, Apple-made technology. I squint against the blinding, flourescent light that greets me, just enough so that I can make out the date.

   Fuck.

   It’s fucking Christmas. 

   In the fog of my dream haze, I had briefly forgotten about the impending holiday, in spite of being reminded almost every hour of every day by those who still possessed “Christmas Cheer”.

   Puke.

   I wouldn’t call myself a grinch, more of a Scrooge really. Though, that was mostly so I had an excuse to mutter “Bah, humbug!” whenever I was given holiday wishes, and I didn’t have nearly the cash stockpile old Ebeneezer was hoarding. Either way, Christmas is no longer my thing. It’s hard to have any kind of holiday spirit when every part of it nauseates you.

  It’s a day to think on the past and enjoy the company of family, but all that was ruined for me a long time ago. Don’t worry, I’ll put on a glowing smile at Christmas dinner. I’ll accept any gifts with grace and gratitude. I’ll explain that it was just a chill when I flinch at their touch. I’ll laugh when they pull me out of a haunting flashback, giving a light, airy apology for “spacing out”. I’ll hold in my screams when I inevitably get glimpses of their faces, and I’ll smile when their ghosts loom behind me.

  I drop my phone on the bed and yawn, stretching until I hear several satisfying cracks along the base of my spine. I know I shouldn’t be such a mopey little crab-ass. There’s plenty to still enjoy about the holiday, and at least I won’t be spending it alone. However, if someone gives you your favorite brand of candy in your least favorite flavor, you’ll eat it, but it won’t be nearly as enjoyable. That’s what it’s like these days. My Christmases haven’t been actually “bad” for a while, but the taint of years past has given the holiday a bitter flavor.

   Glancing at my phone again, I take stock of the time. 

  5:36 a.m.

  Two and a half hours until my mother arrives, two hours to put on the mask of together, sane adult. An exhausting practice, but I’m an actress at my core and who could refuse such a gloriously challenging role?

   To be continued….