It's early December, and I find myself sitting in a psychoanalyst's office in central London, about to begin an hour of pre-Christmas family therapy. Outside, holiday lights shimmer. I can hear a joyfully shouting reveler floats up from the street. But inside the consulting room, an eerie silence hangs. My mother, my sister, and I sit in plush armchairs, feigning interest in the art while secretly eyeballing each other like boxers. My father is merely a small, pixelated face on a smartphone, propped up on a cushion. He is skeptical of therapy but compromised by dialling in via video call. He repeatedly slips off his cushion.
“Shall we begin with gifts? Or the meal?”
Our therapist peers kindly at us through her glasses. In her eighties, she has a profoundly experienced demeanor—as if she has seen every type of dysfunction imaginable. She lets the silence hang before speaking.
Our family started "holiday counseling" eight years ago, following a holiday so disastrous my mother decided we needed external intervention. The specifics are hazy, but I distinctly recall wrestling with my mother over a tray of roast potatoes. I also remember hurling a potato. Then, my mother brandished a carving knife at me and stated, “I would like to stab you with this knife.” We skipped Christmas dinner altogether. My mother walked the streets alone, smoking, while the rest of us remained on the sofa watching a Christmas movie.
The Goal of a Christmas-Proof Family
When we started therapy, the dream was to Christmas-proof our relationships. The idea was to voice complaints in advance, with a mental health professional, to prevent future unhappiness. However, in practice, it unfolds as an annual December hour where we dole out "holiday duties" while delivering awful truths about each other's personalities. My mother will look at me and states, “You do the turkey, Kitty, because you want to control everything.” I then retort, “I don’t think you should do anything this year, Mum, because you can’t cope.”
I believe we all genuinely desire a happy Christmas, but we also seek victory at therapy—which means gaining the implied approval of our therapist. In the immediate aftermath the potato event, winning meant pretending to be saner than you were. Initially, we sat quietly and made practical suggestions about chore rotas. Yet lately, we've realized we can garner more sympathy by hamming up 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 in a battle. Sometimes we overdo it, and our therapist cuts in: “Remember, it is your mother who is struggling.” My mother then grins. “Yes, I can’t cope because I’m unwell.”
Eleven Months of Relative Peace
The curious thing is, outside of Christmas, we get along. I lived with my parents until I was 29, not just because I couldn’t afford to leave. I liked it. For most of the year, we avoid keeping score. We speak on the phone frequently and share funny things in a family group chat. I even appreciate that we are sometimes bad-tempered and sad together—it feels authentic, with no expectation to put on an act. But then December arrives, and we abruptly start attempting to smooth each other's hard edges all over again, aiming to craft an impossibly perfect family portrait.
A Change in Dynamics
In the last couple years, however, something has shifted. My mother was formerly the one who arranged our yearly therapy session and panicked about possible conflict. Recently, she seems less invested. My sister and I, now in our early 30s and without children of our own, have become more controlling of the family we have, while our parents appear increasingly laid-back. They both joined social media recently and last year spent considerable time on their phones. They wouldn't always come to the table when called. My mum retreated to her room often, not wrapping presents 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 container in the kitchen. Our therapist also suggested taking a breath and counting to ten before shouting. But I could tell my mother’s enthusiasm was lacking. She had tasted freedom and now just desired to nap and scroll on her phone.
The Litmus Test and Releasing Control
For me, Christmas remains like a barometer for my entire existence. The degree of joy and peace I feel on the day seems like an awful premonition of the amount I can expect in the future. The harder I try to make my family conform, the more disappointed I feel—and so the cycle continues. I can’t seem to let go. But my parents have released it. My mother has proposed that next year, my sister and I go to therapy on our own.
