Why Santa Claus-ing feels empty
It’s that special time of year again. The glittering lights, the warm and cosy evenings by the fire and the excitement of the best day lingering in the air, fill me with anticipation and longing for it to never end.
I remember these days as a child, baking Christmas cookies with my mother, eating the raw dough whenever she turned her back. In the evenings, I would lie on my back and look up through the pine needles of our Christmas tree. The twinkly lights danced and my mind was far away, dreaming of playing with Barbie dolls and beating my sister at PacMan.
There was nothing in the way of my fantasy. At that time, I really had visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.
I’m not that kid anymore.
I’ve grown up. Moved away from my Pennsylvanian roots to lands far off. Turned into an adult with an acute sense of responsibility. Got married to a Dutch guy. Had children of my own. Spent forty-six years creating a plethora of defence mechanisms that could shield me from any bullets that whizzed towards me.
In a minute, suffered a stroke that broke that armour in half.
And realised that, just like the ten-year-old Stacie who was awkward, chubby and found refuge at home, I’m again susceptible to the whims of others.
The holidays are a tad bit intimidating to me now. The get-togethers and the parties are overwhelming for my strokey self. I find it all too much effort and my heart is left unprotected. I’m left feeling like I did forty years ago – innocently naked in the crowd, unable to deflect bombs when they are detonated near me and ultimately, crying about it.
I can’t help thinking, I was one of them, three short years ago!
I was a carefree partygoer with her hair tied up and rocking high heels. So, why do I find it so difficult? Why can’t I keep up?
When I break it down, there is a very clear answer to this. My stroke brought me down to my most basic, decidedly primitive, instincts. Much like a child, my response is sadness when I’m in a conversation with someone and then he decides to “go get a drink” or she “will be right back”. It stinks. I can’t fall back on my old coping strategies. I cannot rationalise it, conjure up excuses or divert my attention elsewhere. At the time, I am hurt beyond adult-reason. I slink away, feeling broken.
In some ways, I am broken on the inside. The hardened, brittle exterior is gone and it’s just me and my childhood fantasy wondering why we can’t just be nice to one another? Is it so hard to politely have a conversation at a party?
With the sunlight of a new day, I take stock. I think about this flawed part of me. As hard as it was to stand there, looking like a fool with no one to talk to, was there another side? Was there any part of me that felt slightly relieved to be free of the façade that I cultivated to move through and with society?
It leads me to consider, what if we accepted our broken pieces as a part of us, instead of mourning what we used to have?
I have to believe that this is the path forward. Instead of blaming my partners in discussion and curling up in a ball, ashamed, I am choosing to believe that it’s no reflection on me. Because, they were just being honest in walking away from me.
Looking back, before my stroke I was happily walking down the path of my life, blissfully unaware. My life was good. I was happy with the games that we, as humans, played in our social lives. I was deploying the same strategies.
It could have rolled on this way forever, as far as I was concerned. But on the other side of surviving a health crisis, I see it differently. I’m trying to use this pain to understand and grow, to become a much more intuitive and wiser me.
If we learn to love our whole-selves, then there is no need to polish our battle armour every day. We can find opportunity, even in our shortcomings. This perspective on our limitations is freeing and it helps me move on from inevitable disappointments… opening me up to new possibilities.
And that makes Santa Claus-ing feel less empty.