Two years ago was my first Christmas without the narcissist.

Without the pressure. Without walking on eggshells.

Without the fear.

It was a lazy chaos — an unfamiliar relief.

We ate whatever. They watched the football game.

But I was still detached — watching, policing myself.

Trying to be someone I wasn't, but they expected.

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Last year I went to a friend's Christmas on short notice.

An observer bearing no gifts. 

I tried to bask in their family's joy and radiate it back to them.

I tried to fix their overloaded plumbing. 

Anything to feel useful. 

After dinner we played board games and laughed. 

And I tried to compartmentalize my envy.

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This year it's family again.

I'm hoping I'll finally get to be myself.

And that they'll call me by my name.
