The time is early December, and I find myself seated in a psychoanalyst's office in the heart of London, about to begin an hour of holiday-season family therapy. Outside, the Christmas lights are twinkling. I can hear a joyfully shouting drunk person drifts up from the street. But inside the therapist's office, an eerie silence hangs. My mother, my sister, and I sit in plush armchairs, feigning interest in the art while actually eyeballing each other like boxers. My father is just a small, pixelated face on a smartphone, balanced on a cushion. He is skeptical of therapy but relented by joining via video call. He keeps falling off his cushion.
“Shall we begin with gifts? Or the meal?”
Our therapist looks kindly at us through her glasses. She is in her 80s, she has a world-weary demeanor—like she has seen every type of family dysfunction imaginable. She allows the quiet to linger before clearing her throat.
Our family started "Christmas therapy" eight years ago, after a holiday so disastrous my mother decided we needed professional help. The precise details are fuzzy, but I distinctly recall wrestling with my mother over a dish of roast potatoes. I also remember hurling a potato. In response, my mother waved a carving knife at me and said, “I would like to stab you with this knife.” We skipped Christmas dinner that year. My mother wandered the streets alone, smoking, while the rest of us remained on the sofa watching a Christmas movie.
The Dream of a Holiday-Resistant Family
When we began therapy, the dream was to Christmas-proof our relationships. The concept was to air grievances in advance, in the presence of a mental health professional, to prevent future strife. But, in practice, it plays out as an annual December hour where we dole out "holiday duties" while dropping painful truths about each other's personalities. My mother looks at me and states, “You do the turkey, Kitty, because you need to manage everything.” I then retort, “I don’t think you should do anything this year, Mum, because you can’t cope.”
I think we all sincerely want a joyful Christmas, but we also want to win at therapy—which means securing the tacit approval of our therapist. Right after the potato event, winning meant pretending to be saner than you were. In early sessions, we sat quietly and made sensible suggestions about chore rotas. Yet lately, we've realized we can garner more sympathy by exaggerating our issues. My sister talks about her anxiety; I delve into my rage. It feels quite exciting to discuss ourselves this way, as if we are truly up against it. Sometimes we go too far, and our therapist cuts in: “Remember, it is your mother who is struggling.” My mother then smiles slyly. “Yes, I can’t cope because I’m not well.”
Most of the Year of Relative Peace
The curious thing is, when it's not Christmas, we have a nice time. I lived with my parents until I was 29, not just because I lacked the funds to leave. I enjoyed it. For eleven months of the year, we avoid keeping score. We speak on the phone often and share funny things in a family group chat. I even value that we are at times bad-tempered and melancholy together—it feels honest, with no expectation to put on an act. But then December rolls around, and we suddenly start attempting to smooth each other's hard edges all over again, trying to create an unattainably idealized family portrait.
A Change in The Family Equation
In the past few years, however, something has changed. My mother was once the one who organized our annual therapy session and worried about possible conflict. Lately, she seems less invested. My sister and I, now in our early 30s and without children of our own, have become more managerial of the family we have, while our parents appear increasingly laid-back. They both discovered social media recently and last year spent considerable time on their phones. They didn’t always come to the table when called. My mum retreated to her room often, not doing chores but napping. She didn’t even seem that bothered by arguments. When I shouted, she didn’t shout back.
We addressed some of this in our recent session. A new rule is being introduced this Christmas: everyone must switch off their phone and place it in a bowl in the kitchen. Our therapist also recommended taking a breath and counting to ten before shouting. But I could sense my mother’s enthusiasm was lacking. She had tasted freedom and now just wanted to nap and scroll on her phone.
The Litmus Test and Releasing Control
For me, Christmas still feels like a barometer for my entire existence. The level of happiness and calm I feel on the day seems like an terrible premonition of the amount I can expect in the future. The more I try to bend my family to my will, the more disappointed I feel—and so the pattern continues. I can’t seem to release control. But my parents have released it. My mother has suggested that next year, my sister and I attend therapy by ourselves.
