The Christmas Cure by Cynthia Harrison

When I was growing up, Christmas was a mixed blessing. The night before, my grandparents came over, Grandpa roaring drunk, dressed as Santa and bearing gifts. Sometimes he went to the wrong house and distributed our gifts to the neighborhood children. But it was worth that distressful night, which usually ended in tears, because of what came next.

The morning of, I woke to a Shirley Temple dream of beautiful dolls and wonderful toys spread around the tree and all about the living room. There was no space where a toy was not, but my two brothers and I somehow knew our own gifts. Nothing was gift-wrapped and my presents were in the middle of the room, with my brothers’ to each side, so that probably helped them figure it out. As the only girl, I knew what was mine. The little kitchen table and chairs, the sweet easy bake oven, with real cake mixes. The dolls, the velvet dresses, the necklaces and bracelets and the box satin-lined box that opened to a twirling ballerina. In this space, I could lay my trinkets down for safekeeping.

That morning was always the best morning of the year. It’s why, despite knowing it’s not true, I still sometimes equate gifts with love, money with love, abundance with love. I tried very hard to duplicate those Christmases for my own children. Even when I was a single mother and had very little money for gifts, I tried my best. I went into debt, even. Debt doesn’t mean much these days, because I’m not poor anymore, but when I was, I could not afford to pay off my debt, so I stayed under its steady thumb, struggling to pay the outrageous interest.

Christmas is why I became a romance writer. When life is too stressful, too harsh, too much to take, I make another world. One that can be difficult but always ends with the feeling of Christmas morning and its beautiful treasures. I remember that feeling and it’s what I go for in my HEAs, every month of the year.

I’m a romantic and we live in an unromantic reality, but I have a Christmas cure for this, too. I watch Christmas movies, read Christmas novels, deck the halls OTT. There is absolutely nothing in my contract with life that says I have to remember the bad Christmases, like when my grandmother died on Christmas morning just before I reached her hospital room to find her bed empty, the room devoid of flowers.

Or the year my husband left me home alone so he could visit his family while I went to the cemetery. Or all those years I had to hand my children over to their father because we shared custody. Of course, I do remember them, though. And I know life is full of suffering much deeper than my own. Somehow, I managed to find that sweet spot, which is a feeling and not a place, and I know how to find it when, as happens many times every day, I lose it.

Psychology tells us that bad memories are easier to remember than good ones because they cut a painful impression with which sweeter times cannot compete. But I know a few ways to beat the rough hand with which life slap us. I write down the good memories, I create new ones, or discover those written by others and read them over and over. Eventually, they replace the bad stuff, which these days I am adept at kicking away before it stomps me down. 

People make fun of romance and romance writers, but that’s okay. I know many suffering Scrooges. I would rather be happy; reading and writing make it so. 

Cynthia Harrison

https://cynthiaharrison.com/