Suzi Sterel.

When the holidays roll around, it can be very difficult to follow our hearts and minds as to how we want to be. How we want to live our lives when surrounded by painful family members. There is this really destructive and overwhelming feeling to join the Christmas bandwagon “just because…”

Just because…what exactly? 

Tradition?

Our upbringing? 

Expectation?

To follow the collective consciousness? 

Or just because ‘we should feel happy, we should feel like celebrating’?

Because after all, holidays, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, all of the joviality are for celebrating and if you don’t celebrate, maybe, just maybe, there’s something wrong with you.

For many people who are grieving, experiencing loss or divorce, dealing with a depression, or perhaps, ill, exhausted, or just simply exhausted from a tough year… To actively want or choose a break from the demands of the holiday season can be downright challenging. And to speak the words aloud is somewhat taboo… “I don’t celebrate Christmas”…

Are you a Grinch? Or (sssh) just alone or lonely?

On many levels, Christmas and New Years has always been a difficult time for me. It also feels even more complicated now that I’m older. My brother has his own family and I’m living with my parents. It’s a strange feeling, this Christmas feeling. Traditionally, I can be very nostalgic and sentimental. The holiday season always tends to sneak up on me at the end of November and all it takes is that damn Mariah song or someone to mention Love Actually and my Grinch-mode auto-pilot setting is triggered.

I’m going to wax lyrical -and you, dear reader, can enter my own personal ‘Christmas Carol’ collection of Christmas Grinchy-hellsphere.

We enter through the door to Christmas Eve, 1997. My father collapsed on a chair, grey and clammy. Me calling the ambulance My mother returns from the supermarket, searching for my father in disbelief.

My Dad had a heart attack at the age of 52, just before the most family-oriented days of the year. It’s etched into my memory. We dined on hospital food and flat champagne by his bedside, as machines beeped, IV drips dripped and his (bleugh) catheter adjusted. A grim toast to still being alive. ‘Merry Christmas to us’ one of us muttered. My mum clung to him and adjusted his dressing gown and we smiled for the Kodak photo. Circumstances meant that I moved away four weeks later. A choice that feels very different now that I’m creeping closer to the age of 52.

We fast forward a few years to 2001. It’s four days before the dreaded day and I’ve arranged a very special present to myself – an abortion. It was so special that I told absolutely no one. I was grieving the breakdown of my relationship, as I had just discovered that our housemate was two months pregnant – and it was also my fiance’s. So for three days during those Christmas days, I pretended that I had period pains and spent the big day with a scowl written all over my face. I still don’t talk about what it meant to feel the life that was growing inside of me and what it meant to take that life away. As I grow older, living child-free- there is a lot of ‘what ifs’ surrounding that memory.

Time skip again to two years later. In 2003, I was sexually assaulted three days after Christmas, by a man that I considered to be a close friend. I pretended that it didn’t matter because he said that he respected me and I had every right to be angry at him but he was sorry, genuinely sorry, but he was ‘just a bit drunk’. He rang me on New Years day to tell me he had bought us expensive tickets to a concert. He told me he loved me and again that he was sorry but he just ‘couldn’t stop himself’ and ‘did I not realise how damn sexy I was’ and how he ‘needed it’…

‘It’ being rape. A word that has taken nearly twenty years to speak out loud and reclaim as my actual experience. And in reclaiming that word, do I really want to define myself as a ‘victim’ or a ‘survivor’? Do I wish to align myself with so many ‘survivors’ of the toxic masculinity experience of ‘taking’ a sexual experience when consent was so unequivocally removed? How many more times could I have said no? How many more times could I endure listening to him tell me he loved me? How long could I continue the silent scream in my head??

Every time the memory returned, I pretended and denied it and removed and deleted it. I did not speak about it to anyone. I told myself the narrative that what happened to me ‘didn’t matter’ and it was ‘no big deal’. All the whilst living with this supposed ‘it doesn’t matter’ experience. I managed my recovery by hiding in my house for weeks, smoking joints and drinking. To this day, I’ve never said the words sexual assault and rape because I unconsciously stockpiled excuses. You read the survivor stories and surely mine wasn’t so bad because my rapist was my friend? Surely I bore some of the responsibility? Was I too sexy (that seemed unlikely, but it was considered)? Did I cocktease him because I loved to dance with our friends? Did I want it?

And because he was rough and I do like rough sex – consensually, agreed upon pushing, pulling, yanking, clenching. Loving. And perhaps in raping me, I was asking for it that way. Did I somehow give him unspoken signals that I was allowing him to ‘take it’ from me? Did he think that I would like to be raped? Because perhaps he just thought that I wanted it that way? How many drunken nights had we spent talking about our sex stories, of coursee he knew that I liked it that way.

And then there was the timing. He said ‘he was drunk’ – but so was I. And because I was drunk and only semi-conscious, I didn’t say no – enough. And so he took it as a challenge. To convince me that I did want it, that he wanted me and in doing so ‘it was okay’ to ‘take it’.

And because my breathing got heavy and I pushed him away and because I drunkly laughed at him to hide my embarrassment, he grabbed and groped and touched and stroked and ripped at my clothing. To show me how much he wanted me. In his delusional mind, I had orgasmed. I had consented.

And after it was over, he smiled and said that he loved me. And we were okay. Because I didn’t tell him otherwise. I was too out of it and drunk and sore and frozen from shock and confusion to scream at him to fuck off and get off and get out.

And for several Christmases after that, I couldn’t celebrate. It was just endless reminders of ‘how things should be.’ Family members getting married, having children, grandparents, neices, – all those traditions, family, good times and being with the people you love. It’s the ultimatel holiday happiness feeling. Wasn’t it? It was just a never-ending reminder that I didn’t and I couldn’t date. I didn’t want to be touched. But mainly, I didn’t want to trust. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I didn’t want to feel the things that I was in denial of. It was a conscious reminder of the repetitive pain and hurt and repression of “ugly” emotions. So I shut it off and shut it out. It was safer that way.

And we finally reach Christmas 2009. A glimmer of hope. I had met a beautiful and complex man at a wedding the month before. We spent a brief time together before he returned home to the UK. And instead of it being the summer fling that it was, I rolled the dice and moved overseas to live with him. I fell in love with his very British children. My life felt like an Aussie does London, Mary Poppins experience. He pretended that he wanted to play happy families. He wanted it all. He wanted to pick and choose when he wanted me and when he wanted to play happy families with his ex-wife. There were no boundaries and he was so broken. Ultimately it meant that he couldn’t quite fit me into his fantasy so I became obsolete to his real life.

This complex and complicated man-robot had grown up as a child of divorce. He didn’t want his seven and nine year old children to have a stepmother. He convinced me that he was right and wouldn’t budge because his ‘kids were his priority’ and I would always be third or fourth in his list of priorities.

What that really meant was that I was in a foreign country and on top of the micro-triggers of culture shocks, one of the realities was that it was somehow okay that I would spend Christmas Day alone.

Later, I found out later that his ex-wife had invited me to share their Christmas day with them. Many times. She had offered an olive branch because she knew what it meant to feel alone with your beloved man-slash- husband. She wanted me to be there with them and it meant that it was okay that her boyfriend would be there as well. It was easier for her to compartmentalise and make sure the new girlfriend (me) was included and we could move forward as mature human beings.

But he wasn’t. When you jump down the rabbit hole and realise that you are actually living with a reserved, emotionally-retarded British robot of a man, such as my ex, you know that the rose-coloured glasses have been removed.

My Christmases in the UK consisted of me taking time to travel (I know, I can feel your intense pity) or knowing that I would be home alone whilst my partner spent the day with his kids and his ex-wife. Christmas 2010 was spent by going in to Waitrose and spending $22 quid for the most expensive roast Chicken and a terrible Christmas pudding. And eating it alone.

The icing on that metaphorical shit-stained Christmas pudding was that he ‘forgot’ to buy me a present because his kids had to have new i-Pads. So I pretended that I didn’t care and said nothing. When Santa bought the seven and nine year old the i-Pads, all I said was ‘I guess it will replace the one you got them last year.’ and ‘you’re Father of the Year, babe – they’ll love it.’ I could barely contain my passive-aggressive sarcasm which is strangely biting in the Aussie accent.

Time skip to again – a week before Christmas 2017. I was left in a my oncologists waiting room for forty five minutes because there was a on-site medical emergency. It wasn’t a big deal, waiting to see a doctor seemed to be par for the course. A normal occurrance. I didn’t bat an eye-lid, I was just waiting for that month’s test results. And pretending like I didn’t care, like it was just another day. No biggie, no stress. I convinced myself that my biggest worry was which magazine to read in the waiting room. Heads up, I read both back to front. And then I pretended that my internal dialogue of ‘it’s back, it’s back, it’s back’ wasn’t a mantra, it wasn’t going to be my song. I worried that perhaps I should have told my parents, that I should ask my friend to come with me. Because no-one should have to be at this appointment alone. I should’ve asked my best friend to come with me. I should’ve have been more practical and logical and re-train my brain to stop disassociating. I thought, as I waited for the doctor that ifI just took an extra two or three painkillers then maybe all my worries would go away. The cramping and migraines would end.

Because anything would be better than the torture of waiting.

The receptionist smiled and surprisingly compassionately said ‘Not too much longer now.’

And for all that worry and anxiety and brain spiral, it turned out that the results were miraculous. They showed that I was now cancer-free and my oncologist wanted to give me the results directly herself. To celebrate in this day with me.

And then, like a dam bursting, the lifetime of pain and hurt and grief and loss and intense joy and intense sadness just burst through every fibre of my being. I had carried those feelings so far inside of me and below me and intensely repressed. I had pushed and I had pushed and pushed them down because the energy it took to process and think and explore and embracethe monumental feelings was too much. What good does it do to do the pity-party cha-cha dance? Why indulge the inner-demons to parade and tango in the shadows of the past to commit thought-genocide and invade my present life? The better solution was to just expel the shadows and work harder, focus hard, exercise harder and get more sleep. That’s what the experts tell me. Work-life balance. Hydrate. Eat some protein and greens. Go for a walk, get some fresh air, swim in the ocean. All of it so life-enhance and will fix all my ails.

So I pushed and I pushed and I pushed the shadows away.

This is my life, Suzi Sterel. I experienced all these things. So many of these experiences are intertwined with what happened at Christmas. They are so intrinsically linked and aligned with that holiday feeling of ‘I should feel happy right now’ and ‘I should be grateful’ and ‘why am so angry’ and ‘I’m so lucky that I don’t have to have chemo and my parents are alive and healthy and I have a roof over my head, I have a job, I’m no longer broke’ and the darkest of all ‘you haven’t killed yourself yet, so things are okay.’

Because all I want for Christmas is you, Suzi.

And after all of those damn things, I reminded myself at Christmas 2019 and at the beginning of 2020 that things were going to be okay. I got comfortable – as January rolled into February, into March, I was settling in to my job, my life, everything was okay.

I had my best friend’s wedding to look forward to, then my cousin’s wedding at Easter to look forward to, so much love and life happening around me, things were looking up. And as I drove home from a beautiful relaxed country wedding, I learned the news that a beautiful life-long friend had taken her own life.

By the time the coroner’s report was done, the global pandemic was announced and with it the borders were closing in and my friend’s family cancelled the funeral in Australia and the opportunity to travel to London was taken from us. I had no more answers. I was untethered, adrift, once again disassociated from all life’s moments, the brief moments of my best friend’s wedding long gone. I was in a place where I was unable to seek closure or grieve with friends and loved ones due to the Covid restrictions, the limitations on travel and the Melbourne lockdowns. How could I process this suicide, when in my own life all I could do was put one foot in front of the other and force myself to put on the mask of happiness and hope.

Dear reader, if you are still there and with me, I must admit that the Covid-19 lockdowns hit me hard. The many years and years of pushing complex traumas down and down and down started to seep through my life in a myriad of ways. All the traumas that I’d rejected and pushed and pushed so far into the depths of my psyche – they had nowhere else to go but – OUT.

The shadow demons were dancing once more and I was losing my mind. A mental breakdown experience in the silence of my bedroom during a global pandemic. My anxiety had reached a breaking point and the agoraphobia was setting in. Routine was out the window and nothing seemed important. Whilst the rest of the world experience the joys of walking their 5km radius and embraced day-drinking and a work-life balance (myself being one of the lucky ones to retain employment and work from home), I through myself into the extremes of becoming a workaholic to avoid dealing with all the traumas that were battling to unravel inside me.

And I have had to work hard since 2020 to seek a therapists support, in finding ways to connect to coping strategies. The main technique was reconnecting to my meditation practice, another was committing to a regular exercise routine, changing up my diet, developing a sleep routine and most importantly not drinking alcohol to self-medicate. This advice, whilst completely obvious, felt revolutionary.

I taught myself to run. I found stories of hope and health to inspire me. I taught myself to focus on self-care. And even when I broke my ankle in the 2021 lockdown, mentally I had developed strategies that made me feel stronger than before. And as I grew stronger, a strange melancholy struck in mid-November.

The agoraphobia was back, going to the supermarket become super-scary and anxiety enducing. I pretended Christmas wasn’t happening. It just did not exist for me. And it made me sad in some ways, because there’s a small part of me, the child within, who adores the sparkly lights, the pretty colours, the gifts, the wonderment, the parties, the connections, the heart expanding feeling in the air of the spirit of the season; kindness, thoughtfulness, merriment, and music. Friends. Family. Hope. Renewal. Rebirth. Love.

The thought of another impending Christmas holiday, with that all the decorating, hosting of friends, shopping, rushing around, co-ordinating schedules with friends to joyously reconnect in a safe, post-pandemic world, the nostalgic painful reminders put me in full regression mode. A mental breakdown of epic proportions.

Cue 2022 – a year of hope and renewal. A fresh start. So colour me embarrassed when Easter brought the onset of two brain anyeusysms. Weeks of isolation in ICU when my ward was struck down with a Covid outbreak. I had limited access to my friends and family. Another enforced lockdown, again, of epic proportions. And recovery. And despair. And thoughts of ending it all, because after everything, years of mental damage and trauma, upon trauma, what was the fucking point? Why did I keep on trying, keep on hoping?

I had to really dig deep and reconnect to my core essence, my spiritual beliefs and to my ancestors stories. I had to stop, breathe and embrace the unknown questions of what it means to be alive. And I began to pray. And asked that seemingly outrageous question directly to the Christmas spirit – that all important question of …

‘Who cares?’

When you start living your life through the lens of ‘who cares?’ it is a release of a mother of epic proportions.

It means, do what FEELS RIGHT FOR YOU!

Do whatever the FUCK YOU WANT. As Tina Fey says, ‘Do your thing and don’t care if they like it’ and ‘Some people say, “Never let them see you cry.” I say, if you’re so mad you could just cry, then cry. It terrifies everyone.”

It’s your party and you can cry if you want to. You can learn to feel again. You can learn to walk again. You can remember what it means to speak your words. To swear and sing and be cheeky, in whatever way and whatever silliness your life inspires. You can relearn to use your hands and feet when every fibre of your being tells you ‘I’m tired’ and ‘I can’t’.

You can. You can take those thoughts and slap them around and tell them to shut up. Because they are not real. They are just thoughts. And you sit there and watch them float away.

Do whatever it is that feels right. You can do anything if you just put your mind to it.

And to return to the spirit of Christmas, you can decorate your life or not. You can wear whatever feels good and embrace colour and the grey shadows and every shade on the rainbow spectrum. You can embrace the gifts of life that you have been given or not.

Because ‘who cares?’

Don’t play the victim of your own practicalities, it will not change anything about who you are and where you are. It just makes you tired and boring to others.

You are better than that.

You can make special plans in whatever way you like, you can prepare certain delicious foods that brings you joy, you can entertain and reconnect with your friends and family – OR DON’T.

Because ‘who cares’ – you are ALIVE.

Do, as one of my friends does at Christmas – eat cake and drink wine and smash out 10 episodes of Suits. Be fully authentic and aware of what feels real and true in your heart. Live that. Live each moment to the fullest loudest, joyest, loveliest moment of your life. Do whatever feels right in your body, in your heart, in your soul and in your energy levels. Do what feels right.

Don’t be the Debbie Downer that sucks the energy of the people around you and be the victim of your life. You are more than the sum of your sucky life experiences. You are everything. To quote the Doctor, you are important.

Make sure that you stop and reconnect with the though- ‘why am I doing this?’ Is it arrogant narcicism or focussed intent? Ask ‘why do I have to embrace all the traditions out of “obligation”

Embrace your PASSION.

Ask ‘Why do I feel I am SUPPOSED to do all these things in your traditional, with your family, at Christmas – and if you are doing it because you love it and you want to do it and it makes you happy, fantastice.

Live your bliss.

Don’t do something like follow the societal expectation of the December and January rules.The inane stupidity of the meaning behind the New Year and the re-set and ‘New Year, New Me’… Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? Just another set of torturous obligations and traditions? Or because it is a joyous experience to remind yourself of what it means to be alive?

Because conforming to the collective consciousness by giving the defensive rebuttal of ‘what we do’ and ‘other people are expecting and relying on me to follow societies rules’ is stupid.

What if I didn’t rush around trying to buy all the presents, all the booze, all the food? What do I want? What part do I play in all of this? What would it feel like to not decorate? Or perhaps just a whisper of decoration this time? What if I left the dishes unwashed overnight? What if I just allowed my brain to switch off? What if I didn’t answer my phone? What ifI left the house without makeup or without a bra? What if I just didn’t give a shit about whatever people thought? What if I turned off the white noise of the media? What do I think about my life? How do I actually feel about it? What do I believe? Why do I care so much about life? What is true, and authentic in my motivations this holiday season? What feels right to me in this moment?

All of this epic proportional rabbit hole rant is just chaos and a huge crisis of over-thinking. But it is mine and I make no apologies for it.

To be honest, my biggest lesson of the last twelve months is looking at my world and looking at my life in the most honest and authentic way. There is only one way to live my life. As Otis Redding said ‘I did it My Way’.

Bring on 2024!!

Merry Holidays, Happy New Year, Happy Whatever, God bless and Blessed be. May the Force be with you. Fortune favours the bold.

Go. Live. Now.