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Christmas in the Narcissist’s Queendom
My sister hasn’t done well with the loss of what she calls “our Christmas traditions.” She keeps grasping for the last vestige of a memory of normalcy — no, not normalcy, for even the so called “good” times were anything but normal. She grasps for a memory of happiness in a sea of trauma. She grasps to rekindle a feeling of hope and that everything is all right. A feeling that she believes became forever out of reach the moment our mother died.
In truth, that feeling died long before our mom did. But our mother’s death represented the final toll on a bell representing the end of any chance of a lovely childhood. I understand my sister’s hesitancy to let go of it. After all, Christmas was the one time that our mother’s drama leaned toward the positive.
In truth, it was just excess. But to our innocent eyes, it was the time when all the negativity, depression and unhappiness would be replaced with endless boxes and packages filled with any number of random gifts. It was blessed reprieve, if only for one day, and we made it last that entire goddamn day.
Christmas was an interpretive drama choreographed, produced and directed by my mother. It was essential that…
