The Christmas Squatter

Thursdays were my group therapy days. There was always a small amount of dread, though it did help. Here I was again, sitting in the same tan chairs I used to sit in at church.

Ava, a friend from my support group, told me I was brave for telling people who I was.

“This wasn’t bravery at all,” I told her.

“The bravery ship had once been there. It sailed off, then got lost at sea.”

“This was pure survival.”

I knew they all understood.

“I relate when any of you speak about a relentless feeling or voice. But those words don’t quite do it justice for me. I called that little bastard my squatter.”

When I got home on Thursday, I thought more about the topic we had discussed in therapy.

I would describe it as an intrinsic activist

My Squatter, I tried everything.

“You haven’t paid your rent."

“You’ve caused too much damage to this place.”

I even threatened to call the cops, which didn’t make much sense considering the Squatter was living inside me.

Eventually, I stopped trying to evict her.

Not because I wanted her there.

I just got tired of fighting someone who apparently had no intention of leaving.

Sometimes she was a voice.

Sometimes she was a feeling.

She showed up in the mirror when I wore my affirming outfits. I smelled her in my favorite lotion from Bath And Body Works. She ate popcorn on my couch as we watched Project Runway.

As Christmas got closer and I started packing for the family vacation, I kept telling myself that I could wait a little longer to disclose the information.

She would not allow it.

How did she not allow it, you may ask? She physically put weight upon my chest. She tied a knot within my stomach.

Being internally tortured for almost a decade meant there was no such thing as the “perfect time of year.” Eventually, waiting became its own kind of danger.

She wasn’t wrong, but not now.

I could write a letter. Make a phone call.

Christmas would not be invaded by me.

But I couldn’t face my stocking this year.

She was no longer just a voice.

She was the weight on my chest when the realization sunk in.

This was the right time.

Once we arrived at our overpriced Airbnb, I acknowledged that it was finally time to tell the people I cared about.

After Grandpa read a few verses and became a conductor for two church hymns, it was time for the kiddos to hit the hay.

Why did I think there was going to be a perfect time?

There’s never a perfect time to drop this rainbow bomb on everyone.

I tried to get my immediate family to sit down and have a conversation with me during our Christmas vacation. They couldn’t think of anything I would tell them that I couldn’t tell everyone else in the family.

I told them... I am Faye. 

They quickly realized they had just put their foot in their mouths.

“Seriously? Why now?” my sister asked.

“Family pictures. The stocking with my name on it. All the gifts. The ones picked specifically because everyone thinks they’re for a boy. It’s right in my face and particularly hard to ignore.”

She had obviously never experienced anything remotely similar. Her face was completely bewildered before quickly morphing into the expression I knew all too well, the one that said she was annoyed by me simply for existing in the same room.

Uncle Oliver spoke.

He really shouldn’t have.

“Be you, by all means. Just don’t force me to call you something that just ain’t true.”

He thought he was being progressive.

This was coming from the same man who once corrected me when I called the priest “Mr. Beckham” instead of “Father Beckham.”

What if I told him I refused to call him something that was biologically false?

Not worth it. His mind was a locked door and I didn’t have the key to get in.

“So you’re saying you won’t even be grateful for the gifts we got you?” my mother asked.

I could tell she was trying to say something supportive, but her body didn’t even seem to know how.

“If there’s anything that doesn’t have to do with sports, facial hair, or clothing, then I would love to open it. I’m not ungrateful. I just haven’t built that part of myself yet, where I accept myself enough that I can handle somebody else getting it wrong. My counselor said I just need to try to accept myself.”

“I love you so much, honey. Can we just remember that Christmas does not revolve around one person?” My Grandpa said in an unfamiliar, condescending tone.

“Wait.”

I really wish I had stopped there.

“I haven’t brushed up on my religious materials in a little while, so correct me if I’m wrong. Isn’t this day all about Jesus Christ? One person?"

Each person let out a sigh that happened to be in unison with all the others. It sounded as if a mild wave had crashed

“Well, aren’t you just my little Grinch who stole Christmas?” my grandma chuckled.

Unlike Grandpa, her and condescension had been friends all her life.

The trip got quiet and uncomfortable after that.

The day I flew home from the vacation, it was Thursday again.

I had support group.

Even though I was reluctant to go, I kind of needed them that day.

I was careful about what I shared in support group. If what I wanted to talk about was heavy, it could trigger all kinds of feelings for everyone else, which would leave us all holding the short end of the stick.

When I finished sharing my Christmas experience, I ended with:

“Now we know for certainty, Christmas miracles must be real. I made it home alive. I escaped the Christmas nightmare."

Humor makes uncomfortable things easier for me to swallow, but I know the people around me probably experience it differently.

Ava, however, looked like she was about to seriously hurt herself.

She needed to say something and was going to die of overthinking how to deliver it.

“Come on, Ava. I respect your opinion. Spit it out.”

“You know I love you. You aren’t truly thinking of going back to Christmas with those people, are you?”

Her voice was forcefully calm.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll assess my growth when the time comes.”

Ava seemed relieved.

Not because I had answered all her questions, but because that was the most serious response I had ever given her. She knew I would actually give it real thought.

The counselor of the group turned to me.

“Faye, have you given any more thought to the relationship between you and your Squatter?”

“A bit of thought has been thunk.”

“So, will you be terminating her lease?” one of the newcomers eagerly asked.

“I’m going to do what a landlord with a moral compass would do. We’ll sit in my office and have a chat. I’ll say, ‘You can stay, but fix the damn holes in the wall. I know this may be impossible given your current circumstances, but it wouldn’t hurt you to give me a Benjamin every once in a blue moon."

“Although that was cute, I think it may be helpful to say something sincere,” the counselor said.

I thought about it.

“Turns out, you aren’t the nuisance I once thought you were, although it would be great if you didn’t choose a holiday to make a scene.

“You won’t let me stop until I allow myself to accept who I truly am.

“That makes you less of a tenant and more like a friend who actually gives a fuck.”

I left my car in the parking lot of the therapy center, a walk was needed.

My protector.

My invader.

The sweat on my neck.

My diligent advocate.

You deserve more acknowledgment than what I said in group.

I don't want to live my life as exactly who I WASN'T supposed to be.

I will be indifferent to the "God didn't create you this way" speeches.

At least I know that later, we will watch Gilmore Girls together.