Yep.  The old bastard did it to me again.  No matter how much I try and clean myself, water near the boiling point and a full bar of soap every day, I still can’t get his filthy snot off me.  Well, maybe some chunks of it are starting to crack and drop into the tub.

Ah, the joyful holidaze.  Such sweet, blissful memories.  Ahem.

Christmas can be odd for me.  That also includes the point leading up to it.  I can’t always tell what to predict, yet sometimes it’s like I have a crystal ball disguised as a snow globe.  What I feel could be either neutral or downright hellish.  This year, my prediction was: Downright Hellish.  Was I correct? I’ll let you know.

The memories.  It’s not always about the childhood trauma anymore.  Nope! I’m a big girl now! Other years have passed, where arguably, those experiences outweigh the things I recall as a kid.  At least those that the Dissociative Amnesia still doesn’t hold so tightly in its grasp.  I do remember some things.

I have an older sister, and of course as all children do, we’d wake up at ghastly hours filled with excitement about our pressies.  Our stockings were always placed full at the bottom of our beds.  Was that some kind of “ruse” to keep us so busy, we wouldn’t bust out of our bedrooms like total maniacs? If so, not a very successful one.

We were happy to wait.  Neither of us were stupid.  We knew it was around 0500hrs or something! Not to mention, “Santa” had arrived, and we were already on such high amounts of adrenaline, we’d only had a few more hours to sleep than…yeah, those adult people who were supposed to raise us.

Nonetheless, Male Adult really required no sleep, so he came down shortly after we did.  But that didn’t matter.  We’d have to wait hours for Female Adult.  Okay, non-bio dad and mom.  Nobody could get her out of bed because she was so depressed.  So, maybe we’d get around to opening our pressies close to lunch? Then she’d go back to bed.

Pressies.  I never got what I wanted.  I could never understand why.  Even at about six-years-old, wee Aspie PA would write out her Christmas list in this manner.  I would compare the prices to keep the items evenly distributed financially.  I also kept the prices reasonable.  I knew the household budget, so I never asked for anything that was astronomical in cost.

Yes.  At that age.  It is called (beyond me being an Aspie) growing up in a very traumatic and abusive household.  Where you must parent your parents and try to maintain (if lucky enough to create!) order out of complete chaos.  Because that is your job.  No, more than a job.  For me, it was my destiny.  I was deified by my mother, due to her religious delusions.  But that’s another post entirely.

We were always late for every family get together.  Even if it wasn’t Christmas.  We could not get my mother out of the house! This was no doubt the (hypo)manic stage hitting, plus toss in some OCD? She’d constantly check if ovens, irons etc. were turned off.

And by late? I mean about 2-3 hours! Sometimes, dinners got cold while everyone was waiting for us, the other children in the extended family got so cross and upset.  I know damn well all of the adults became MORE than cross!

The shame.  The embarrassment.  Plain and simple, our family sucked and my mother was a total lunatic.

Oh, but let’s quickly put those skeletons back in the closet! I see them parking the car! They’re here! Well, those people are out of my life now anyway.

So, back to my “prediction.”  It was 50/50.  More or less.  60/40? Basically, things weren’t so bad during the day.  However, when the night came and it was dark? Things got ugly.  Let’s not forget that this also continues for at least another week.  So, whatever form of torture being endured, ensues until New Year’s.  Maybe even long past that?

Ah! One more thing.  Whoville didn’t have a happy ending either.  The Grinch is still sticking pine needles up through my mattress and pillows while I’m sleeping.

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