Last Thanksgiving occurred exactly one week after my job was eliminated. My son and I talked about what we wanted to do, how we felt in general about the holiday, and what we might do going forward. I was feeling anything but thankful. He has never really understood the holiday, but does enjoy the fact that I cook and we have a good meal together. And we used to go to a movie after dinner.
When I was growing up, Thanksgiving meant a big dinner at the grandparents' house. Of course, this wasn't special because we had dinner there every Sunday. The difference was that in addition to the usual fried chicken there would be ham, in addition to mashed potatoes there was dressing, and in addition to chocolate cake there was sweet potato pie. But there were no traditions that made this day feel any different than any other day. As usual, my grandfather mumbled his regular dinner prayer.
After my grandparents passed away, Thanksgiving with my family of origin became even more bland. My mother would awaken before the rest of us in order to put the turkey in the oven, she would make dressing in the special yellow bowl, and my father would always manage to distract her long enough to get a test slice of turkey. There was never any mention of why we were celebrating. My sister and I knew about the origin of Thanksgiving from school. We had no idea how other families might celebrate. Some years we would all watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade on television. After my son was born, the only variation was that he and I would leave after the dishes had been done and go to a movie or have an adventure (go on a drive to discover something new).
While my son and I lived in Alaska, we spent three Thanksgivings with my boyfriend's family. I didn't know how to react to the way that they celebrated. We started the day with breakfast together, performed support tasks for the cooks, each household brought at least one dish to share, and we went for a lovely long walk while the turkey was baking. Dinner was served late in the day (in the South, dinner is the mid-day meal and supper is the evening meal). Everyone pitched in to clean up. And the hard part for me -- we went around the table declaring why we were thankful. Pre-diagnosis me immediately choked up, chin quivered, and I cried while saying I didn't know. My son would express thanks for the turkey.
The Thanksgivings that my son and I spent alone have been rather lackluster as well. The first Thanksgiving in Alaska with just the two of us was memorable. It occurred right after I had left my boyfriend. I had spent all of our money moving us into a small one bedroom apartment. My son had bedroom furniture and we had a folding table in the living area. I slept on the living room floor. We had no transportation costs because we lived across from the high school and I could walk to work. Times were very, very tight. Thanksgiving arrived before payday. On the Wednesday before, we had a treasure hunt in the apartment. My son has always shown no interest in coins and there was a treasure trove under the clothes on the floor of his bedroom. We scraped together some money, walked to the grocery store, and were able to purchase a half-pound of ground beef, three potatoes, and a very large onion. Then I taught my son how to make hamburger hash. That year, in the tradition of the Pilgrims, we were celebrating our resiliency, our optimism in the face of adversity, and our joy in being a family. We have never had another Thanksgiving like that one. (While I wrote this my son came in and we agreed to skip Thanksgiving and concentrate on Christmas. I haven't told him yet I'm more interested in celebrating the Winter Solstice.)
One of the things I've been able to realize from learning my diagnosis is that there has been a common characteristic, a multi-generational influence that factored into each year's celebration. My maternal grandfather cast a shadow over every celebration with his mourning for his mother who died when he was a child. My father cast a similar shadow over celebrations with his mourning for his mother and his negative memories of holidays growing up in his grandmother's house with a cruel uncle. My mother treated the holidays as an obligation and always either accused an aunt of wanting to take away my father or complained about how she was mistreated by her family of origin. Neither of my parents were celebrating with the family they created.
My father and maternal grandfather were visibly depressed. What I've learned is that my mother most likely is also mentally ill -- she used to be a wild woman when her thyroid medication was not at the proper dosage. Like me, she also heard voices when the airconditioning was on (which I thought was normal). She also believed people were talking about her. She also had panic attacks and was plagued with anxiety. She is currently residing in a facility for people with dementia.
I am thankful for all the people who helped uncover the truth about me, who arrived at the proper diagnosis, who created a drug cocktail that helps, and for the hours with an exceptional therapist who was the first to finally reach ME. I probably won't celebrate the American Thanksgiving holiday any more, but I will continue to give thanks everyday for the extraordinary gift of myself that I received from the people who have led me to this place of safety and sanity. I am also thankful for the friends I've been able to be myself with, who have supported me both in depression and hypomania (and who can now identify my hypomanic period and safely flee), and who have been my first true friends.
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