I don’t remember the last time I went home for Christmas. Not that I really feel like I have a particular “home” to go back to. I mostly think of home as the place I’m making for myself. The closest place I have to “home”, of course, is my grandparents’ house, and that’s where all the relatives tend to congregate every year. I’m not sure what’s going to happen this year. I was there last weekend and my grandpa said that he didn’t want a big party, although he certainly wants everyone to stop by. He wants to be around people. He’s just not up for a celebration.
So, I’m flying down on Christmas Eve and I’ll spend Christmas morning with my niece and then the afternoon with my grandpa and maybe see the cousins that I’ve somehow lost track of. I’ve given up feeling bad about not wanting to spend time with my mom. I just can’t carry that weight around with me anymore.
And I’m spending the rest of the holiday at home. My home. The one I’ve made for myself. Despite my therapy and growth and all of that crap that comes along with getting older, I still am conflicted about family. Part of me just runs from it. It seems like so much work and trouble and energy and strength. But then I see my niece and I think that some things about family maybe are worth it after all.
Sometimes I just want to make my own home alone, and enjoy the refreshing solitude. But then I wonder if I’m missing something else even better. And then I remember that I don’t have to figure it all out right now. I can enjoy this, and watch my niece open her presents, and spend time alone, and see what happens next.