Holidays are a time of stress for so many in recovery. Whether it’s relatives’ alcoholic behavior or just plain screwed-up dysfunction, our families have special access to our triggers. Who but family can elicit the reemergence of every character defect, personality flaw, and long lost resentment that we thought we’d conquered? There may be others able to negatively revert us, but families do so with uncanny efficiency, don’t they?

Families tend to pigeon-hole us into the characters we once were, rather than honoring us for the people we’ve become. It’s amazing really. My brothers and father still treat me as the person I was at age twelve! Even more amazing, it is despite my best efforts that I usually become that twelve year old in their midst! How does that happen? Scary efficiency.

Over the past several years, I’ve dealt with holidays by staying home alone, working (so my coworkers with “healthy” families can enjoy their day), or having dinner with friends. I’ve had some of my nicest days at work on Christmas and Thanksgiving. Hospitalized patients are extremely grateful for care they receive on holidays, when many of them are also alone. I’ve had some of my most serene runs, alone with Puck through quiet city streets, while the masses enjoyed ham or turkey dinners. I’ve learned to enjoy the solitude and peace of holidays, yet I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the pang of loneliness, remorse, or ill-will that’s also occasionally crept in on those “special” days.

The approaching holiday season is the reason, I’m sure, behind my brother’s constant presence in my brain.  This is the brother who’s turned into a pompous, arrogant, snob. This brother looks down on most of us in the family, and he only calls any of us when in desperate need. Once he gets what he wants, he climbs back atop his lofty perch and disdainfully ignores us again.

A couple years ago, during an otherwise civil disagreement, my brother lambasted me with a vitriolic, damning tirade so sharp and cruel I’m still stunned. It was incredibly unfair and hurtful, and since making immediate amends for my piece, we’ve not spoken a word. He doesn’t have the apology-gene. Until recovery, I didn’t think I had one either. It’s easier for him to hope it goes away. I’ve prayed about it and prayed for him, but here we are approaching Thanksgiving, and even without seeing him, my trigger’s been tripped. The bullets are flying within my brain. And as you know, bullets are usually dangerous and destructive. I guess I need to start praying all over again.

Dear God, please get January here–quick!

Ahhhh, the holidays…good times. Good times.