merry everything

Laying here in my fuzzy Christmas jammies looking at the tv in mom and dad’s bed… well, just mom’s bed now, I guess… I turn the volume down low enough so I can still hear everyone out in the living room, but loud enough that no one would suspect me eavesdropping if they came in to check on me.

I’ve already seen this episode of Matlock, but I doubt I could focus on it even if I hadn’t.

My mind keeps wandering back to when Christmas was fun and exciting and when everyone was actually happy, not just pretend to be happy, happy.

I can still smell daddy here, on these sheets.

I curl my little body around his pillow.

The room taunts me. When I look at his closet, I see him there, smiling back at me, standing in his old brown robe with the tan trim. I look away, only to find him peeking over the swinging saloon style bathroom doors at me with that mischievous grin so full of adoration and love.

I close my eyes to escape, but instead I feel his embrace.

I miss him.

I miss him more than I’ve ever missed anything in my entire life. Missing isn’t even the beginning of this empty, hollow, lost feeling.

I open my eyes and his embrace releases.

I try to focus on Matlock again, but am distracted by the voices out in the other room. Their forced laughter and compulsive conversations echo down the hallway to me when I hear someone new come in the front door.

“Oh, she’s not feeling well, she’s resting in our bed. I’m sure she’d love to see you, though. Go on back there and say hi.”, I hear Mom say.

I am startled by my own unexpected impulse to leap up and hide in daddy’s closet, when suddenly my big brother appears in the doorway holding a floppy, brown stuffed animal puppy.

I smile back at him and am soothed by the solace I find in his kind eyes as he comes to sit next to me on the bed.

He shares my sadness. I can feel the same “miss” pouring from his soul. I can tell he sees it in me too, while we sit in the odd comfort of shared misery.

As he wraps me in a warm hug, I feel daddy’s embrace return to both of us.

Relief… although, fleeting.

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If you’ve read No enemy, but time, you already know that my dad passed away the November I turned seven-years-old. A few short weeks later my brothers also were in a bad car accident.

That year, I spent Christmas Eve acting like I was sick in my parent’s bed, because I just didn’t have it in me to be around everyone. We were all constantly wearing our brave faces for each other. We all fought back the incessant urge to cry and yell and scream and beg for everything to just go back to normal. We all sustained a forced smile to not only protect each other, but to protect ourselves from being completely consumed by our own broken hearts.

It was excruciating.

I truly did feel sick from it.

Being in their bedroom made me feel as close as I could be to my daddy at that time and that’s all I wanted for Christmas.

Writing this was surprisingly very difficult for me. I hadn’t realized how heartbroken I truly am for that little girl still. When it was me in that moment, I only really knew my own seven-year-old perspective. I hadn’t yet become a mother or a wife. Now, being that little girl again, equipped with these new perspectives… I find those feelings incredibly overwhelming. The memory of it is nearly crushing.

But, that’s why I do this. That’s why I write. That’s why I share. Because trauma is powerful. Trauma shapes us and molds us and makes us into who we are. Good or bad. And, no matter how hard we work, no matter how much time goes by, no matter how good life can be at any given time… it doesn’t change the fact that it happened and, to be frank, it never goes away, it just gets different.

And that’s okay. And I’m okay.

I will always wish I could have saved that little girl from all she went through, but the amazing realization I’ve had writing this is that I find immense comfort in letting her know who she’s become.

She made it. She survived. And she’s found a way to use the darkness to brighten the shine she hopes to shed on others.

Merry everything, sweet girl.