Dr Susanne Armstrong - 2025 Writers series
Christmas
Well, it’s that time of the year again, unfortunately, and many of us struggle hard to get through these few ‘joyous’ days. Christmas creates such a lot of pressure; to spend money we don’t have, to see people we are uncomfortable with, to eat food we don’t like, to break our routines, to be happy (smile!) and to re-enter dark memories.
At five years of age, when my drunk father threw my Christmas present at me in rage, shouting expletives like ‘Here’s your bloody Christmas present’, how was I to know that he was undiagnosed Autistic? Or even that I was Autistic? This profound information took half a century to arrive within our family.
I witnessed decades of rage, violence and crippling alcoholism, living in fear–not just of him, but of all men. This unpleasant norm … was my life. So, it makes sense that as a teen I became entwined into a severe domestic violence relationship. For years, I had no idea how to get away from that psycho. My brain was conditioned from birth to tolerate and respond to violence by fawning or freezing, to be in a muted state. If I ran, I would be punished–so ‘fight and flight’ were squeezed out of me. I never dared speak up; my mother would scowl. So trained, like a dog off leash, I would sit, stay quiet and not run away. Anyway, where would I go? And who would want me?
My family unit masked quite well with our extended family, so my closest cousins, who had loving parents and a safe home, could never imagine life with a violent father; and they were never exposed to the dark side of their uncle. But I’m not here to bag out on my dad for his actions and the lifelong impact of them, I’m writing this to plant a seed—for us to consider engaging in small acts of kindness to others as we move through these emotional expectation-filled days; to be aware of the great impact our kind words and actions can have on the people around us and their flow-on effect to others.
Because of my Autism and complex post-traumatic stress disorder (cPTSD), my survival senses are super heightened. My fear radar is permanently switched ‘on’; loud bangs, noises, aggressive body movements, tones of voice–can take my mind and muscle memories back into places of imprinted terror that I simply can’t just snap out of.
Plus, Christmas is swimming in triggers: music, decorations, images, foods, alcohol, smells, … words even—‘Merry Christmas’ leads to ‘What’s wrong with you sour-puss, you should be happy’. People casting judgements about how other people should feel at this emotionally charged time of the year.
We need to be gentle, and to think before we make remarks; to be grateful that we actually have no idea how that other person is feeling right now, or know what’s going on in their lives. We could not imagine the horror some people live with and how much our words could be such a gift, or do harm.
I know that when I become activated (‘triggered’ is a gun word, and I’ve had terrifying experiences with those too), I need to be orientated to time and place. I need reminding that I am an adult with my own independence, my own money, I have a car and a home. That I am loved, and I am safe. And that you will be with me, text me or call me if I need support, just to get me through this transient tsunamic wave.
Many people lack reflection, compassion, understanding and empathy for those with unique realities and heightened perceptions of life. Those who were lucky enough to be raised sheltered from experiences of shame, humiliation and being hit, sworn at or constantly put down verbally as a child can never fully understand the devastating impact of living in a household fuelled by alcohol, violence and mental illness.
To me, alcohol and drugs are a symptom—a sign that a person is struggling hard to fight their demons alone. They may be neurodivergent without knowing, and simple things in their environment may make a huge difference to their life , such as soft lighting, noise-cancelling headphones and sensory friendly clothing, fabrics, carpets and colours. People around them may need to adjust to their communication styles, including patience, clean language, communication boards, and use a wider range of expressive methods than just verbal language.
Our traumatised brain, neuroscience tells us, does indeed react to perceived triggers of trauma. Trauma can impact the Broca’s area of the brain, diminishing our ability to use verbal language and heightening our emotions. A person in front of you who is highly emotional and unable to speak calmly and coherently, or who may be under the influence of substances, needs our compassion.
My father was never diagnosed Autistic, he was diagnosed alcoholic. He was never understood or offered compassion for his hard-wired obsessive behaviours and his inability to express emotions healthily. Rather, he harnessed those behaviours by becoming an elite athlete and received accolades and recognition for his special interests.
He was a person who would give you the shirt off his back, his last dollar–on the one hand, but say the blunt truth about not liking or needing that Christmas present you just handed him and giving it away to another person right in front of your eyes without even saying ‘thank you’. He was unapproachable and irreproachable.
Being Autistic and being raised in an undiagnosed neurodivergent household, I now realise, created and trained me for most of the trauma I experienced in my life. I reflect on Christmas, on my father’s unintentional mistakes, on myself with a child’s mind not understanding the full complexity of adults, but I remember feeling alone, unloved, hurt and abandoned. But I also remember my wonderfully kind aunties who took me under their wings, and dear old ladies who would smile at me at the bus stop.
I wrap the gifts and play Christmas music.
The cats have their Santa hats on, and my family arrive.
I wrap them all up … in warm loving hugs.