It’s that time of year again. Spooky season. We don’t need a holiday to remind us of the many horrors in life anymore, though.
I’ve battled depression, year round but mostly seasonal, as of late and holidays aren’t what they used to be. Even though Spooky Season isn’t my jam right now, I’m more afraid of “spend-y season” coming up because I’m on the poorer side this year.
The holidays aren’t as magical as adults. Especially an adult with a chronic illness that keeps me from attending all of the events and earning all of the money. I’m already dreading the gatherings I’ll have to pass on or the festivities I can’t follow through with and I’ll have to see the smiling faces on my Instagram feed after or face the guilt from relatives for not being able to do it all.
When you’re growing up, you don’t have the stress of the holidays on your shoulders. The holidays were basically made for you. No one expects a gift from a toddler. Few people ask a teenager to bring a dish or two to Christmas dinner. Kids just get to enjoy it while the adults are running on fumes. Santa even gets credit for some of it!
It’s always been a bit sad to me how gradually we grow up. You never know, at the time, it will be your last Christmas with Santa or your last time trick-or-treating.
When I was a kid, my dad always took us on a hayride in the dump truck from work on Halloween. He’d load up my brother and I, and our friends and off we’d go, with our painted faces and cheaply made, yet overpriced, Halloween costumes. Every year, without fail, he’d pretend to break down in the cemetery to give us a scare. I knew it was most likely a lie, but I would still wonder, stricken with panic, if we were stuck in a cemetery.
One year, as I was a bit older, I said, “Dad, I’m old enough to know we’re not really breaking down. You don’t have to do it this time.” When we embarked on our Halloween journey, I wondered if he’d honor my mature request. “Oh no, we’ve broken down in the cemetery again. What will we do?” Dad said from the driver’s seat. I wondered if perhaps we really had broken down and he had said it so many times we just didn’t believe him anymore! How could I possibly trust his word on this?!
It turned out to be a false alarm again and we soon went on home to get out of the cold. That’s the last vivid memory I have of trick-or-treating and spooky hayrides. Maybe it was the last time. You never realize it’s your last time doing most things while it’s your last time. Your last time being told a story before bed, your last time being tucked in, your last time swinging on a swing-set, your last time playing with toys and Barbies, your last time “breaking down” in a cemetery with dear old dad.
We were all in such a hurry to grow up that we gradually let go of those things, thinking we were too grown up or too cool. We didn’t need mom and dad cramping our style. Adults always tell us not to rush to grow up but we don’t listen. We want to stay up late, live by our own rules, eat candy for dinner, and have a job making money instead of sitting in a classroom.
Well, we got what we wanted. We were protected as children and didn’t know, for the most part, how cruel and relentless this world could be. Now we’re adults who have to work, pay bills, do boring adult chores and errands and we’re held accountable for what we do and don’t do. Right now, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and let dad pretend to break down in the cemetery one more time and I would cherish it.
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