My Bah Humbug Story

I hate Christmas. Simple as.

Well, okay, not that simple as actually. It used to be a time for wonder and snow and gifts and the smell of real Christmas trees. Ours was always wedged perfectly in the bay window, decorated by myself and my siblings. My mother hails from Nurnberg, where Christmas is big and although my mother is Hare Krsna devotee, rather than a Christian, she always got in the spirit by decorating the house beautifully every December. My father, a wishy-washy 'Catholic', also loved Christmas. He would bring the tree and then after opening our presents on Christmas morning, would bring us to our Auntie's where she would try and convince me, to no avail, to eat meat. That was always a bit awkward, because, as children we have a limited vocabulary. We know what we believe, but it's how to express it which is tricky. Luckily enough I was a quiet child who didn't cry too much in front of others. I didn't like making a scene. Not then, not now. I just kept quiet while my face went red. At that time vegetarianism wasn't a well-known concept, at least, not in Co.Down and it seems that my father never had the courage to inform his family that his children were vegetarians.

These Christmases came and went each year, until I was nine years old.

Throughout my childhood, my father channeled his addiction from alcohol into an addiction for Alcoholics Anonymous, and gambling, and smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. He seemed to know everyone and everyone knew him, whereas my mother would be more likely to keep herself to herself, and put all her energy into raising her five children out in the sticks, in Kilcoo. When I was nine years old, my father had a "breakdown", conveniently just before Christmas. I couldn't understand it fully then, but having been introduced to Lillian Polly not long before then, I knew she was something to do with it. Contrary to my humble and hard-working stay-at-home mother, Lillian Polly was also a co-dependent ex-alcoholic who he'd met at the AA, and they grew close. I cannot say what attracted him to her, maybe it was the fact that she had several credit cards and loved spending, maybe it was the fact that she had had a lobotomy and was so depressed and so dependent on diazepam and oxycontin (to name just a few in her cocktail) that with her off her face, he could get away with murder. She was the opposite of my mother, who told him off for smoking, told him off for staying out late at the AA, knew when something was not quite right. That's not to say that my mother never experienced depression. In fact, as I grew older, I realized that the scars on my mothers body were, in fact, not from animals biting her. The scar along her neck is not from a crocodile as she once told me and those on her wrists are not from monkeys.

I remember him saying "I just can't take care of the kids, Eve" and I thought to myself then, as I think to myself now, "Huh? Is that something new?". Come to think of it now though, he was only doing what his male role model had done. Walking away. Since then, there was no Christmas. No presents, no tree. Each year in school I lied about what Santa brought me, until I was outspoken enough to say "I don't practice Chirstmas, I'm not Christian." Having a Hare Krishna as a mother had it's benefits, especially when we moved to a Loyalist area of Belfast where I was often asked whether I was a Catholic or a Protestant. Having inherited nothing but his very Irish surname, the protestant milliies always thought there was something suspicious about me. I was even asked whether I was a Catholic Hare Krishna, or Protestant Hare Krishna. It still makes me laugh.

Several Christmases on, I was working in retail and the things I witnessed in the name of Jesus' Birthday were just absolutely appalling. The waste, the rush, the people bitching at retail and catering staff for not having super-human speed, the homeless laying on the streets, cold and watching it all. The news of those who die on the streets. Everyone stressing to make things perfect, for one day. One lousy day. Of course then the come-down. I'll take the sanity all the month through, thank you very much!

It's hard to resist though and I will get in the mood a little, but every year at some point I wind up feeling stressed and depressed.

Biggup to all the other humbugs out there, and those who don't fare well this festive season. You got this! Here's a Christmas tune for people like us!