a (mostly) merry christmas

Two years ago, I got the stomach flu for Christmas. The queasiness arrived shortly after breakfast Christmas morning, and escalated into actual vomiting sometime in the early evening, denying me the indulgence of a delicious holiday dinner and keeping me couch-ridden for 36 hours straight. It was an unpleasant experience, to say the least, and certainly not how I had hoped to spend my short, three-day stay with the parents.

Truthfully, though, I was secretly excited I’d gotten sick, and pathetically hoped my bout with the flu would kickstart the weight loss I’d been desperately desiring for myself. For the past four or five years, I’d feared the holiday season for the way it forced me to confront my fear of food even more constantly than normal, for the pounds (even if only two or three) I always seemed to put on, for the way obligatory social interaction went hand-in-hand with the holidays and made my isolated existence temporarily impossible to uphold. Christmas made me anxious and unhappy, and left me feeling inexplicably out of control, roped into traditions (eating, drinking, actually enjoying myself) that stood in stark contrast to my usually-so-limited lifestyle and disrupted my embarrassingly self-obsessed standard.

Last year, I found myself slightly less terrified by Christmas as it approached, and I managed to mostly enjoy the celebrations that ensued, the food that was served, and the socializing in which I (still somewhat obligatorily) engaged. And while the fear of getting fat was still present in my mind, I conquered it enough to remain relatively unaffected by its attempted influence on my psyche. Anxiety struck on occasion that year, but my (sometimes incapacitated) powers of rationality were surprisingly effective in quieting the Crazies and keeping me (more often then not) happy about the holidays.

For me, Christmas—the entire month, in fact—has always been preceded by fear and followed by the guilt of overindulgence, fueled by an avid distaste for my body and an all-consuming obsession with Thin. But this year has been decidedly different, refreshingly devoid of food-induced fear, and generally free of social anxiety. Having finally made some (it’s a constantly fluctuating condition) peace with this uniquely (and sometimes frustratingly flawed) body, I am actually able to appreciate this holiday without the distraction of physical trivialities, enjoying the wine and the waffles and the time away from work without worry of weight-related repercussions.

So, in spite of spending my first Christmas away from my soon-to-be-visiting parents, I have thoroughly enjoyed this day. And while the depression of which I have previously written is most certainly not gone for good, I feel as though the mask of superficiality—of external symptoms alone—is beginning to be shed, allowing me access to once avoided truths, and the courage to confront them on a more consistent basis. This alone has made for a happy (relatively speaking, of course) holiday, indeed.