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I don’t like holidays. I hate Christmas. This time of year awakens too many ghosts in me.

I remember the screaming and the fighting and the insulting relatives. I remember the fear of being watched by Santa Claus. My father told me he was invisible and he was always in the house. Santa is always watching you. Be careful what you do. I was afraid of Santa Claus.

I was afraid of Jesus, too.

The priests who taught me their stories made God and Jesus sound like two assholes. I was taught to feel guilty for my shyness when I was seven years old. I was taught to feel shame for my orgasms when I was a little older. I was taught to ask forgiveness for thinking about these things at all. And I was taught not to question. I was taught to obey God’s law, no matter how unhappy it made me.

They threatened me with pain and suffering beyond imagining. If I was not loyal, Jesus would get really pissed off and his father would punish me.

And God is a vicious fucker. His literature says so. The Bible is dripping with the blood of his victims. The Book of Job alone is a gruesome story of a ego maniacal God. He had no care for humans at all.

I still shudder when I read the Bible. That’s how deeply I was programmed to fear this invisible monster. He is your Lord and Father. He is everywhere. He sees everything. He is jealous and quick to anger. He likes to punish and torture. He tortures out of love. Another abusive parent.

I was paralyzed. I was frozen. I did what I was told. If God was anything like my father, I didn’t want to piss him off. I knelt. I prayed. I asked forgiveness. I asked for blessings. I praised God’s Almighty Glory.

At home, my father was beating my mother. God did nothing. My teachers tortured me. God had the day off. The bullies beat me. They weren’t as strong as my father. Their beatings were amusing. But God could have stopped it. I prayed all the time. Nothing.

So I prayed harder. I wanted God to answer me. I wanted an explanation. He talked to Job out of the whirlwind. Sure, He told Job to fuck off. But at least He spoke to him. At least He bothered to do that much.

God had nothing for me. God couldn’t be bothered. Two disinterested fathers, what a disappointment I must be.

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Flashback:  I was in the trial and error phase of psychiatric care.  Major depression rarely responds to a simple treatment.  It takes a lot of tweaking.

Try this drug for a week.  The side effects are too severe: vomiting, sleeplessness, jitters, etc.  Wait a few weeks.  Your body may adjust.  No, I’m throwing up on the side of the road.  Ok then, next try these other medications.

This went on for a while.  My depression was resistant.  Some meds left me a zombie—inhumanly numbed out—while others pushed me to mania.  But a nice even keel—normal lows and sensible highs–always seemed to elude me.

In the middle of this, Thanksgiving 90-something, my Aunt Sarah gently approached me.

Jesus loves you, she said, and so do I. Aunt Sarah is born again.

God had nothing for me. God couldn’t be bothered. I snapped back in reply:  Jesus has nothing to do with this, Aunt Sarah.  This is all on me. Your God abandoned me. Fuck him, Aunt Sarah. I was screaming. Fuck him and Jesus.

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I had two disinterested fathers. I had two absent fathers. I had two abusive fathers. What a disappointment I must be. Imagine how pissed off I was when I realized that Jesus was a legend and that God didn’t exist. But that’s another story.

For now, I just wanted to explain. I hate the holidays. I don’t even want to acknowledge them anymore. Sorry. I have too many bad associations. I have too many bad memories.

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I will write a special yuletide post about the Christmas my father tried to kidnap me. It will fill you with holiday glee. I assure you. Until then, enjoy your Thanksgiving gluttony. Christmas greed is right around the corner.

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