Festive

The scream had been building in my chest for days.

Its first whispers, its gaining wind, began—as so many things do—on Christmas Eve when Amber was hours later than I expected because they had to drive their mother to pick up their sister Rebecca at a Costco in Yonkers (which is better than having to drive to the airport). This necessitated shopping, but why wouldn't they? Their family is not less important than mine, and they should not prioritize my trying to avoid familial judgment.

And they do judge because I have had a few flaky partners. I never lost that hypervigilance. One might imagine, more than a decade into my relationship with Amber and having been married most of it, I would have given up the idea that they are a flake, but it is a condition that comes on gradually and is a harbinger of them pulling away. I'm sick, coming down with something. It seems to be the nature of having a week off that my body succumbs to some bug. As I tell Amber, we don't let Crazy Thomm make major decisions, as he is all wounded feelings. I can be rational within him, but this is often giving him chocolate, caffeine, or a nap. He is mainly ungovernable and prickly like a porcupine on a tantrum.

There are the typical holiday expectations, the discordance of the memory, and the fact of these peppermint and pine-scented days. I shoved more oomph in when seeing my niblings, who were up visiting from Texas for the first time since this summer--and whose reappearance is never guaranteed. It seems no different from seeing them at birthdays and holidays when they lived forty minutes from me. That is the difficulty in living in a society where one never entirely disconnects from people, but you never actually connect.

I cannot say to what degree this all is because I see what is around me with the eyes of an adult, but I remember them with a child's set. It feels more profound than this, though. All festivities have felt dampened since the lockdowns, and it is uncertain they will ever blossom again like hothouse poinsettias. In a sense, we never fully came out from under COVID, helped in no way by the sickness still flaring up.

Aside from the one my father's job threw for kids, I recall a few Christmas parties, but I've always assumed these must be occurring somewhere. I do not know who to ask for an invitation. Since 2020, I no longer have confidence my hope is correct. There may no longer be tables of cookies and punchbowls of eggnog whose rum could peel paint.

Dan and his family are well. My nephews are taller, impossibly taller, but they're not different. Alyssah, whom I held hours after birth, will attend college in the fall. Elijah has graduated.

None of them miss me because what is there to miss? I was never a deeply involved uncle. I never babysat. I was always an accessory, someone who would come to a party. I don't blame them. I wouldn't care either way about me—not that they dislike me or even that they don't like me. Why should they feel anything that would result in the missing?

I want something I don't deserve, some pronounced Christmas with my family. I wish for some profound connection between these few children in my life. There never will be.

Addy spends part of present-opening punching me. I explain to her that, no, we do not hit people. I know more clearly than most what happens to children who start to think it's okay to hit people. This isn't to suggest any of my niblings would go so far as to become murderers. I have taught composition to enough kids who have.

Addy is pesky in a way that marks affection for her. I play Just Dance with Alyssah, and she trumps me. I beat her on only one level. I don't have a significant interaction with Aydan or Bear.

I feel more on with my family. It almost borders on mania, something like how I feel performing.

Coming home from my parents' house, Amber was quiet in a way that I found pointed. It wasn't. I knew that. My mental illness disagreed. I was wrapped in this wet wool and wanted Amber to talk, but I was not my best self. They were quiet, and sometimes, when I'm driving, the last thing I want is for the other person to be silent.

I played my Christmas mix low. I couldn't deal with a sound that wasn't another person speaking. Amber put their hand on my side, and I touch their hand. It wasn't enough.

These holidays are always peculiar because Amber and I have to be iterations of ourselves that are no longer our everyday. Amber and I are different around one another. We are not our truest selves, but by necessity, it is closer. I don't know who I am in the dark. For the most part, I like the way I'm around Amber.

I have to figure out what facets of myself apply to my family.

I tried to stow my resentment for Amber's late arrival on Christmas morning, even though they did not have a set time. I was to be there at 10:30, and I was, though it meant leaving Amber's mother's house early.

When I came home from Christmas, I crashed. Part was the allergy medicine I took at my parent's home, but not all. I took more personally than I should have that Amber stayed longer with her family, as they should. I needed an emotional cushion from my family. I felt the dissociative habit where another version of me took over while I crawled inside. He does a good job pretending to be human on my behalf.

My mother commented at one point that Amber is nonbinary, just like the neighbor's son's wife. My nephew Elijah was present for this remark. He was once Aaliyah, and I'm sure in my mother's mind, he is still Aaliyah. Though Elijah remains fairly femme presenting, he uses he/they pronounce. Categorically, despite their feminine garb, prettiness, and makeup, they no longer associate themselves with women.

Days later, the scream escapes. I am aware that the screaming was not reasonable. It is a thorough scream, spittle-flecked and tearing my throat, so I know I am doing damage I will suffer for days. It is beyond redundant to suggest I don't mean what I say alone in my car. I have abandoned both speaking and meaning for a banshee keening at the windshield. While it is happening, that sensible node within me states oh, really, now! You're being rather silly, don't you think?

I do not think. I scream until the screaming stops, then I continue driving behind Amber so they can drop off their car to get fixed from a coworker having backed into it.

Amber had been trying to hug the angst out of me that morning, then abridged it because they wanted to leave their car as early as possible.

They could only prick a tiny hole in the dam to let out the pain. The screaming is dynamite. Before we get a few miles down the road, most of it is out of me, leaving behind a pronounced emotional vacancy and nothing to put in there.

Is this about Amber? They provoked it, but it is essentially not their fault--at least not the provoking. They mentioned using a gift certificate to buy electric razors to buzz their hair off, which was not a joke. I saw this image of my wife, bald and in their too-large overalls (or appropriately sized, and I simply do not like the garment). It filled me with dread. It seems symbolic of changing so much we would cease to be relevant to one another. They speak of doing a year-long program in the city and only seeing me on weekends. I know this song too well and recognize its closing refrain. If I encountered Amber as they are becoming, as they assure me they were beneath masking, would I know to give them a chance? But it is not their hair.

I wish I didn't have to expose this side of myself to Amber. However, as my rabidity in the car driving four miles attests, I do not get much private time to vent my lack of reason.

After a few hours, enough of me has poured back into the vacancy that I can enfranchise myself. I still do not like the idea of Amber with a buzzcut, but I understand this is not a fight I can win, let alone have. ("Winning" would not necessarily mean they do not get a buzzcut as much as I feel better about the step. Amber is sympathetic, but they don't think it is a big deal. They want to be self-sufficient and avoid the salon.)

It isn't about their hair or them. The tension of the holiday built until the only way to be rid of it was to scream.

last watched: Resident Alien
reading: This Is How You Lose the Time War