It's early December, and I find myself seated in a psychoanalyst's office in central London, about to begin an hour of holiday-season family therapy. Outside, holiday lights shimmer. I can hear a joyfully shouting drunk person floats up from the street. Yet within the consulting room, an eerie silence prevails. My mother, my sister, and I sit in plush armchairs, pretending to admire the art while secretly sizing up each other like boxers. My father is just a tiny, flickering face on a smartphone, propped up on a cushion. He doesn't really believe in therapy but compromised by dialling in via video call. He keeps falling off his cushion.
“Shall we begin with presents? Or the dinner?”
Our therapist looks benevolently at us over her spectacles. In her eighties, she has a profoundly experienced demeanor—like she has witnessed every type of family dysfunction imaginable. She lets the silence hang before clearing her throat.
Our family started "Christmas therapy" eight years ago, following a celebration so awful my mother decreed we needed professional help. The specifics are fuzzy, but I clearly remember wrestling with my mother over a dish of roast potatoes. I also remember throwing a potato. Then, my mother waved a carving knife at me and said, “I would like to run you through with this knife.” We skipped Christmas dinner that year. My mother walked the streets alone, smoking, while the rest of us remained on the sofa watching a Christmas movie.
The Goal of a Holiday-Resistant Family
When we began therapy, the dream was to inoculate our relationships. The idea was to air grievances in advance, with a mental health professional, to prevent future unhappiness. However, in reality, it plays out as an annual December hour where we assign "Christmas roles" while dropping painful truths about each other's personalities. My mother looks at me and says, “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 sincerely want a happy Christmas, but we also want to win at therapy—which means securing the implied approval of our therapist. In the immediate aftermath the potato event, winning meant pretending to be saner than you were. In early sessions, we sat quietly and made practical suggestions about chore rotas. Yet more recently, we've learned we can garner more sympathy by hamming up our issues. My sister talks about her anxiety; I mention my rage. It feels strangely thrilling to analyze ourselves this way, as if we are truly up against it. Sometimes we overdo it, and our therapist cuts in: “Remember, it is your mother who is not always mentally well.” My mother then smiles slyly. “Yes, I can’t cope because I’m not well.”
Eleven Months of Easy Harmony
The strange thing is, outside of Christmas, we have a nice time. I lived with my parents until I was 29, not only because I lacked the funds to leave. I liked it. For eleven months of the year, we don’t point score. We speak on the phone frequently and share humorous things in a messaging group. I even appreciate that we are at times bad-tempered and sad together—it feels honest, with no pressure to perform. But then December rolls around, and we abruptly start attempting to smooth each other's hard edges all over again, trying to create an unattainably perfect family portrait.
A Change in The Family Equation
In the past few years, however, something has changed. My mother was formerly the one who organized our yearly therapy session and panicked 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 controlling of the family we have, while our parents appear increasingly relaxed. They both joined social media recently and last year spent considerable time on their phones. They didn’t always come to the table when called. My mum was to her room often, not doing chores but napping. She didn't appear that bothered by arguments. When I shouted, she didn't retaliate.
We addressed some of this in our recent session. A new rule will be implemented this Christmas: everyone must turn off their phone and place it in a bowl in the kitchen. Our therapist also suggested closing our eyes 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 litmus test for my entire existence. The degree of happiness and calm I feel on the day seems like an terrible premonition of the amount I can expect in the future. The harder I try to bend my family to my will, the more let down I feel—and so the cycle continues. I find it hard to release control. But my parents have released it. My mother has suggested that next year, my sister and I go to therapy on our own.
