Mr. Scrooge: not this year

As I awaited the arrival of my annual alter ego that settles in my mind and heart every December, I experienced a surprising flashback. The memory or the existence of a feeling of emotion from my childhood that signaled the arrival of the Christmas season washed over me.

I remembered the blizzard on Christmas Eve, a red ten-speed bicycle, a black and white television accompanied by the first Atari gaming system. I remembered the whole family driving around town looking at Christmas lights, throwing snowballs and building snowmen, and tasting eggnog for the first time. Two weeks off from school and no worries in the world. Except, of course, wondering if Santa got the list on time, and if he knows about the hole my brother and I accidentally made in the hallway wall while we were fighting. Sure we were naughty, but the patch with duct tape, putty, and paint had to count as nice. Awe and joy dominated the day … back then.

For a long time, anxiety and stress have replaced that emotion. For me, December 25 has meant nothing more than the end of another year. A time to reflect almost incessantly on the things that went wrong instead of reveling in the moment of all that is right and good. It had become a time of year to spend rather than a glorious time full of happiness. The snow became a driving hazard, not a safe landing surface prerequisite for a sled. The date seemed to lurk on the calendar and I could feel it getting closer and closer. The turkey and mashed potatoes were my last comfort before the fussing started.

I know that many of you share at least some of these feelings during the holidays. I’m certainly not alone, as we are all constantly reminded in the news, on the internet, and in daily conversations about how many people experience depression at this time of year. I know that for me it was a simple trap to fall into. Once trapped, I found that I almost embraced depression. And, as any good martyr would do, I secured my place in this condition by adding alcohol. I was self-medicating my depression with a depressant, brilliant!

Maybe this year will be different because I no longer use alcohol for any reason. Pause, I needed a moment to pat myself on the back. Perhaps my flashback was more the effect than the cause of happiness and excitement. Maybe my future stepson, Enrique, at age five (when I remember allowing him to behave like a five-year-old) is rubbing off on me a bit. Do you remember Christmas at five? Obviously I had forgotten, but now it all comes back to me.
So when Mr. Scrooge tries to visit you this year, and he will, politely inform him that he is no longer welcome. Enough time has been wasted with him. Also, when it comes to the fictional depictions of the Christmas spirit, I remember Santa was a lot more fun. I think I’ll stick with him this year.