This time of year is especially difficult for me, not only because my dad passed away during the December I was 11, but also because,
“Its a time for giving, a time for getting,
A time for forgiving and for forgetting.”
~ Cliff Richard
A rider: This post is not about dealing out blame or accusing anyone, as nobody is at fault or to be forgiven. It is merely a peek into my inner self.
With almost every gift I get, my dysphoria steps to the fore, smacking down all the defenses I am trying to build up, snatching memories from my childhood to parade on the stage of my mind. Amongst others:
- The sleeping doll my mom gave me one Christmas when I was four. It lay in a cupboard, rejected – the way I felt.
- The chocolates my mom’s sister-in-law gave me, a pudgy child and teenager trying to lose weight and not succeeding, every Christmas, until my mom took pity on my tears and told her not to give me chocolates. She promptly snatched the chocolates from me and exchanged it for a box of tissues.
While writing, others step up to be acknowledged, but I am not going to allow them on stage and afford them status in my memories. But they lurk in the wings, taunting and snickering every time I open a present of women’s toiletries (the usual gift) from a colleague or relative. I hear them jeering in scorn, slicing my confidence to rags, chanting,
“Na na-na na-na nah!
You’ll never be a ma-an!”