Some things I just don't understand.
Dec. 24th, 2003 09:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleIt's Christmas Eve.
I led sales in the store for Christmas-- it's official. I did over $25,000 since the first of the month, by myself. Of course, we did over that in sales in one DAY yesterday. But still, I've reassured myself that I'm good at what I do, and it wasn't a fluke, though leading sales for eleven months in a row last time round should have taught me that. But I feel a pretty decent sense of accomplishment. I did well.
But I spent most of this evening crying, and I don't know why.
Oh, partly, I do. I miss what I thought I had. I miss things I won’t go into here. But it's more than that. I think I finally put my finger on what, exactly, casts this pall of resigned dread over Christmas for me the last few years.
Obviously, Christmas isn’t my holiday. It has no religious significance for me. But ever since I was a child, when, I suppose, my folks didn’t want to deprive their darling daughters of a grand human tradition, we’ve always gotten together and given gifts for Christmas. I do best under pressure—I’ve always bought everything at the last minute. I finished my shopping tonight, for instance. Yet it’s always important to me to make sure that whatever I get is somehow significant, and fun. Christmas to me isn’t about socks and blenders, it’s about neat books and things that glitter with thought and consideration. It’s about showing those you love that you really thought about them, and about what they like, and that you know them. I admit I usually need help with my brother-in-law, but given several options by my sister, I’ll take the most fun. I want people to smile when they see or use the things I give them.
But my family isn’t like that. I know, I know, I know—I should just accept that and deal and stop thinking in such materialistic ways. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t affect the fact that they love me. But every year, it’s the same thing. My family will make a half-hearted attempt to ask what I’d like for Christmas, and I’ll say, "Oh, I’d love y’all to just put money towards x or y." There’s usually something I want that’s yes, I’ll admit it, something that is, in the grand scheme of things, not vital. Something fun, or beautiful, or sweet. Something that will make me feel good. Not, in other words, socks or a blender. And every year, they’ll tell me, "You don’t need that. There are plenty of other things you need. Don’t be silly."
And every year, I get the equivalent of socks, or a blender.
It’s not the stuff—or the lack thereof—that gets to me. It’s the casual dismissal of those things I say are important to me. It’s being told what I should want, and that I don’t really want what I say I do, and that wanting such things is silly. In other words, it’s the blithe dismissal, the inability to understand, or even to try.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I sound like a horribly spoiled brat. But I’m not talking about asking for a new car, or a house, or jewelry, or a cruise to the Bahamas. I’m talking about a DVD, or a book, or a donation towards something I want to get myself. I don’t care about the value of the thing, I care about someone looking me in the eye and saying, "I hear you. I understand. I don’t get it, but I hear you."
It’s the same thing I’ve always wanted. To not feel like a freak with my family. With the rest of the world at large, I get that attitude all the time, and I’m resigned to it. I even like it. But for decades now, stupidly, I’ve looked to my family to finally, finally understand me. And I just don’t know that they ever will. Worse, I don’t think they want to.
Once, a few years ago, my Mom gave me one of the best gifts ever: a miniature Breyer horse. I had mentioned once that I’d always wanted a stableful as a little girl, but I’d never gotten one. She saw one, by chance, in the shops, and wrapped it up for me. When I opened it Christmas morning, I cried. It wasn’t the four-dollar piece of plastic, it was the unspoken, "I know this is something important to you, and I respect that."
Whine, whine. What sixteen-year-old doesn’t bitch about her parents not understanding her? This is old hat. Just because I’m going through the same shit as people half my age still doesn’t make me special. But this is my journal, and I’ll bitch if I want to.
I’ll end on a more cheerful note, however. I spent two hours on the phone this evening with Bachelor #3. We agreed to meet for dinner Saturday, and I realised that as I was just at Genji several weeks ago with Bachelor #1, Comic Book Guy, I don’t want to go back there again. I also have discovered, thanks to Bachelor #2, the Opera Singer, that I adore chai latte, which I ordered on a whim. Even if I never see him again—and I’m not betting the bank that I will—I’ll always have chai. Perhaps that’s even better than Paris.
(Bitter laughter) No wonder I’m so emotional lately. What a mess!
I led sales in the store for Christmas-- it's official. I did over $25,000 since the first of the month, by myself. Of course, we did over that in sales in one DAY yesterday. But still, I've reassured myself that I'm good at what I do, and it wasn't a fluke, though leading sales for eleven months in a row last time round should have taught me that. But I feel a pretty decent sense of accomplishment. I did well.
But I spent most of this evening crying, and I don't know why.
Oh, partly, I do. I miss what I thought I had. I miss things I won’t go into here. But it's more than that. I think I finally put my finger on what, exactly, casts this pall of resigned dread over Christmas for me the last few years.
Obviously, Christmas isn’t my holiday. It has no religious significance for me. But ever since I was a child, when, I suppose, my folks didn’t want to deprive their darling daughters of a grand human tradition, we’ve always gotten together and given gifts for Christmas. I do best under pressure—I’ve always bought everything at the last minute. I finished my shopping tonight, for instance. Yet it’s always important to me to make sure that whatever I get is somehow significant, and fun. Christmas to me isn’t about socks and blenders, it’s about neat books and things that glitter with thought and consideration. It’s about showing those you love that you really thought about them, and about what they like, and that you know them. I admit I usually need help with my brother-in-law, but given several options by my sister, I’ll take the most fun. I want people to smile when they see or use the things I give them.
But my family isn’t like that. I know, I know, I know—I should just accept that and deal and stop thinking in such materialistic ways. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t affect the fact that they love me. But every year, it’s the same thing. My family will make a half-hearted attempt to ask what I’d like for Christmas, and I’ll say, "Oh, I’d love y’all to just put money towards x or y." There’s usually something I want that’s yes, I’ll admit it, something that is, in the grand scheme of things, not vital. Something fun, or beautiful, or sweet. Something that will make me feel good. Not, in other words, socks or a blender. And every year, they’ll tell me, "You don’t need that. There are plenty of other things you need. Don’t be silly."
And every year, I get the equivalent of socks, or a blender.
It’s not the stuff—or the lack thereof—that gets to me. It’s the casual dismissal of those things I say are important to me. It’s being told what I should want, and that I don’t really want what I say I do, and that wanting such things is silly. In other words, it’s the blithe dismissal, the inability to understand, or even to try.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I sound like a horribly spoiled brat. But I’m not talking about asking for a new car, or a house, or jewelry, or a cruise to the Bahamas. I’m talking about a DVD, or a book, or a donation towards something I want to get myself. I don’t care about the value of the thing, I care about someone looking me in the eye and saying, "I hear you. I understand. I don’t get it, but I hear you."
It’s the same thing I’ve always wanted. To not feel like a freak with my family. With the rest of the world at large, I get that attitude all the time, and I’m resigned to it. I even like it. But for decades now, stupidly, I’ve looked to my family to finally, finally understand me. And I just don’t know that they ever will. Worse, I don’t think they want to.
Once, a few years ago, my Mom gave me one of the best gifts ever: a miniature Breyer horse. I had mentioned once that I’d always wanted a stableful as a little girl, but I’d never gotten one. She saw one, by chance, in the shops, and wrapped it up for me. When I opened it Christmas morning, I cried. It wasn’t the four-dollar piece of plastic, it was the unspoken, "I know this is something important to you, and I respect that."
Whine, whine. What sixteen-year-old doesn’t bitch about her parents not understanding her? This is old hat. Just because I’m going through the same shit as people half my age still doesn’t make me special. But this is my journal, and I’ll bitch if I want to.
I’ll end on a more cheerful note, however. I spent two hours on the phone this evening with Bachelor #3. We agreed to meet for dinner Saturday, and I realised that as I was just at Genji several weeks ago with Bachelor #1, Comic Book Guy, I don’t want to go back there again. I also have discovered, thanks to Bachelor #2, the Opera Singer, that I adore chai latte, which I ordered on a whim. Even if I never see him again—and I’m not betting the bank that I will—I’ll always have chai. Perhaps that’s even better than Paris.
(Bitter laughter) No wonder I’m so emotional lately. What a mess!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-12-25 05:10 pm (UTC)At any rate. *SMOOCHES*
no subject
Date: 2003-12-25 06:23 pm (UTC)Oh, there I am, being a guy again, looking for a solution to a problem when what you need is some emotional support. Oh, I fully understand what you're going through, having been the recipient of underwear, clothes that I never ended up wearing, and NOT getting the records I wanted, in spite of an extensive list.
You do have my sympathy. Maybe Bachelor #3 will understand too.
Merry Christmas.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-03 04:22 am (UTC)