If you were raised by a parent with a personality disorder, I’m sure you have some stories to tell, and probably some pretty good doozies about things that happened during the holidays.

My worst Christmas ever was when I was thirteen.  We were a family that attended church each Sunday, so I knew that Christmas is really about the birth of Jesus, giving to others and not being selfish.  But again, I was thirteen, a middle-school aged girl in a new school (my sixth new school), and I was hoping for something pretty and new.  There were very few things I had of my own and what I did have was either a hand-me-down from my brother or from a dime store.

This particular Christmas I couldn’t help but have hopes, yet I did not want to hope.  I had a strong feeling that disappointment was the only thing in store for me.  But, on Christmas morning when I awoke, there were a few wrapped gifts under the tree!

My heart fluttered with excitement!  What could be in those packages for me?!  A new sweater?  Maybe some new jeans?  No, no, let’s not get too crazy.  It might just be some new undies, but that would be okay!  Honestly, I’d be happy with some chapstick and a few new pencils!

I hesitated, nearly holding my breath as I began to slowly open the packages….to find… things I’d already owned.

My mother had gone into my room, took a handful of my things, wrapped them up and put them under the tree.  Crushing.  Absolutely crushing.

The first day of school after the holiday break when everyone was standing around listing off everything they’d gotten for Christmas, I dreaded anyone asking me what I’d received.  I tried to slink back in the shadows so no one would see me.  Yet, the dreaded question eventually came from a girl in my class.  All I could say was, “Nothing, really.”  Saying the words was less painful than the looks of shock and pity from my classmates.  In the end I guess it didn’t matter.  I changed schools again the next year, anyway.

Luckily, I have recovered from the scars.  I can actually tell my worst Christmas ever story now without feeling seriously depressed.

Truthfully, the recovery from growing up in a severely toxic family took a lot of distance and a loooong time, but it was well worth it.  Today I have a wonderful husband and four lively kids that make me proud (most days).  We aren’t perfect by any means, but we love each other and are fully conscious about nurturing a good environment and healthy relationships.

To remain hopeful, to educate myself about personality disorders, and to gain the  courage and serenity to forgive and move on is the best gift I could have ever given myself.

There is hope, always hope.  Have faith. Take time to heal, however long it takes.  Give love to yourself so you can then give love to others.  It’s the best Christmas gift ever.