There are two kinds of Christmas countdowns happening in the world right now: An excitedly gleeful, rushing-to-get-ready, ‘I hope Aunt Phyllis doesn’t comment about the gravy” type of countdown…and my countdown. An anxiously anticipating, trying to pretend it’s not happening in two weeks, ‘I hope my mother doesn’t pitch a fit and do something awful” type of countdown. Sound dramatic? It’s not.

Even without the addition of a personality disorder, holidays and special occasions have a way of taking familial issues and negative emotions and placing them in a pressure cooker. As the day approaches the pressure cooker begins to shudder and shake, its contents heating to boiling point. Grudges, resentments, and emotions seem to double in volume, boiling and bubbling away, rattling the lid and the nerves of those gathered around. By the time the day arrives everyone is anxious and irritable, trying to pretend that the pressure cooker is not going to explode. As a result, the tiniest indiscretion is all it takes to blow the lid off the pot and cover everyone with scalding venom.

Now, let’s add a Borderline Mother to the equation. The pressure cooker just doubled in size- it has to, to accommodate all the extra resentments and grudges. You can’t anticipate them, because they’re based on fabricated events. But there they are, clear as day, bubbling away in the pot. Every now and then leading up to the day, she’ll give the pot a shake to really get things going. When the day arrives- she is there, holding the pressure cooker, waiting. Waiting for someone to screw up. Waiting for an excuse to rip the lid off and throw blistering poison all over her loved ones, or a special selection of them. Then as they attempt to treat their burns, she will erupt, condemning everyone for victimizing her in this way.

While this is how I remember the holidays of my early childhood, I would be lying if I said that all our Christmases were like this. My siblings and I enjoyed a period of several years starting in my late teens with perfectly normal, relaxed Christmases. Husband 1 had been effectively excommunicated. This removed the painful and anxiety-inducing Christmas visitation. Even so the lead-up was never particularly pleasant- we would be treated to a nonstop narrative about how he was a deadbeat who was trying to ruin Christmas by not paying child support. But Husband 2 was firmly under her thumb and no one ever really challenged her- things were going her way, so life for all of us fluctuated between good and tolerable.

In spite of this, the Christmas season always fills me with quiet dread. Anxiety lurks behind every present, every decoration, and in the shadows cast by twinkling Christmas lights. Once again, my siblings and I are approaching the holidays in a state of fracture- anticipating the arrival of the pressure cooker and distraught at the thought of what it contains.