Sleeping Through Thanksgiving

The prompt reads: "Write a personal narrative story about a holiday gathering gone wrong." I don't have a story that fits the prompt exactly, but the prompt got me thinking. (And that's great! That's what prompts are for. It's just weird that "non-fiction family gathering" inspires me more than "a story at an aquarium".) I don't have a unified narrative for you with a beginning, middle, end and a life lesson. I'm not thinking about hijinks and silver linings. I'm just thinking about me.

I used to say, "I hate holidays," all the time growing up. These days, it's turned into more of an "I don't like holidays" or an "I can survive a holiday". At my youngest, I was oblivious. A little older, I became aware that I didn't handle these things the way people around me did. A little older, I discovered I had depression. Late teens, add anxiety. 20s, an inattentive ADHD diagnosis. Turning 30, I recognize I'm probably on the Autism spectrum. It's kind of neat, this evolving understanding of myself and the way I work, but at times I just feel like a big mess.

So what is a holiday? It's a break from the routine. Not just a small detour in my day, an entire departure from normalcy. More likely than not, I'll be expected to go to a house I don't live in to spend several hot hours with people I only see a few times a year. I'll be expected to eat food I didn't prepare. They'll want me to talk about myself. They'll be loud. It will be too hot. If I engage in some comforting distraction, it will be rude.

If you've ever been the person who disparages "kids on their phones all the time these days, missing out on what's in front of them," please tuck that thought away. I can admit that some people spend too much time on their phones and can sometimes be rude about it. I'm not trying to deny that. But I really need you to understand that for neurodivergent people, keeping hands and minds and eyes occupied during interaction is imperative. This has been going on longer than smartphones have been a thing.

One summer at a family gathering I decided to take the risk of being rude. I brought a book. I sat on a hill several yards away from the action and read for hours and hours. My aunts' little dog, Maybelline, who I had only just met, stayed with me all afternoon. I think I read until the sun set. Once in a while people came to check on me. I guess they'd seen me at enough holidays to know I just needed space. I was able to listen to the conversation and enjoy the vibe from a comfortable distance. That's one of my favorite memories of family gatherings. Now that I know more things, I understand this as "parallel play". THIS is the way I interact best with people: being nearby, doing my own thing next to them, and absorbing the atmosphere at my own pace. This is how I socialize. When I'm playing a phone game or doing a puzzle or reading or doing anything else, I'm actually at my most present.

So what's the opposite of that, when I don't bring a book? Basically, catatonia. I spent many winter holidays at "the family house" nervously staring into space. I'd park myself in one corner of a couch and just stay there. Sometimes I'd eat, sometimes not. If I chose to eat there was a flood of anxiety. If I chose not to eat, everyone would ask me what's wrong. It was a catch-22. I didn't ask for anything to drink or go to the bathroom unless it was an emergency. I just needed to stay still and quiet and wait to be taken home. Everything else could wait until normalcy returned.

It's a little better now. I'm an adult. I'm medicated. I understand where my difficulties come from and what causes them. I can advocate for myself now. I can excuse myself, or allow myself to pick up a distraction, or deploy top tier "masking" techniques and other coping mechanisms to appear like a functioning person. My sense of time is a little better; I believe myself when I tell myself "this will be over in a few hours". I recognize my parents and sister as my allies. When I find myself totally unable to enter a room or acquire a drink, I can ask them to help me. Yeah, that last one is the big one.

You wanna know what my favorite Thanksgiving memory is? One year we had Thanksgiving at our house. We don't usually host the winter holidays. This was new. I kind of hoped the comfortable setting would make me act more "normal" at a family gathering for once. As it turns out, it didn't. Everything was the same. I didn't want to eat in front of people. I couldn't talk. I was too warm. My energy drained quickly. But, since I was at home, I had an escape. I went to my room and laid down. I didn't really intend to fall asleep, but I was just not capable of anything else. If I was going to get scolded later, well, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I slept through Thanksgiving.

When I woke up, there was a slice of pumpkin pie on the bookshelf next to my bed. Mom and Dad know their weird eldest daughter has it rough on the holidays. I don't remember if we said anything about it, but it doesn't matter either way. That slice of pie said it all. It was the best holiday hug I'd ever received.