“My son and his 2 sisters rushed through the door screaming: ‘Did you get the face paint? What time are we leaving? What are we going to write on our signs? I can’t believe today is the day we are going to the Bruins game!’ We lined our faces with black and yellow stripes and hung black and yellow beads from our necks. Emmet drew a #4 on his cheek for his favorite, albeit retired, Bruin, Bobby Orr. We blasted the good ‘ole Dropkick Murphy’s, hopped in the car with my ex-husband and shipped ourselves up to Boston for our first Bruins game. The car ride was spent brainstorming ideas for the signs we had yet to write that would be worthy of a spot on the Jumbotron. We were all happy. One family, two divorced parents, in a car, laughing, singing, bonding, and talking hockey. The car ride alone was a slice of magic.
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There was that word, magic. I had been thinking about this since Christmas Day. ‘Um, Santa is not real… I’m sorry, honey…but, well, the magic of Santa is. Magic lives all around us, especially during Christmas time. It is our job to look for it and to even be magic.’ The words kind of stumbled out of my mouth as I unexpectedly found myself answering the dreaded question on Christmas Day. My 8-year-old, the youngest of my 3 children, was a little too young for this talk, I thought. But this kid is perceptive and stubborn. When he asked if Santa was real, I knew he wouldn’t take yes for an answer.
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He already knew. He saw the wrapping paper under the bed. He heard his cousins say that their presents were from mom, not Santa. And my guess is that he encountered other clues all season long, and that the question had been nagging to be asked until he could no longer ignore it. So although I didn’t think he was emotionally ready to handle the letdown that follows this disappointing truth, I just couldn’t tell the lies required to keep the myth going any longer- but I also had no idea what I was going to say. He had caught me by surprise.
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Somehow the idea of magic came to me. I didn’t quite believe my own words, but they just kept coming out. Hoping, praying and anxiously fidgeting, I kept trying to convince myself that there was something to this idea of magic and that this was, indeed, Santa’s legacy, but my words didn’t seem to soothe my son. He cried for what felt like 24 straight hours. He felt like an idiot for believing. He wondered why he was sitting on a stranger’s lap. I didn’t have all the answers. I didn’t really have any. Eventually, life just kept going and the sting of this harsh truth slowly subsided. And then, the Bruins Game.
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Our tickets to the game were comped, a Christmas gift for me, which I then passed on to my children. We therefore weren’t sure where we were sitting until we picked them up at Will Call. Some of the best seats in the house! The kids were in heaven, and me and my ex-husband were thrilled, too. A perfect night, a needed escape, and one of the few things in the world that all 5 of us love equally: The Boston Bruins. Game On.
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The kids cheered loudly, waving their signs high above their heads, and lighting up their section with their smiles when I heard my name. ‘Are you Suzanne?’ A woman approached me at the end of the first period. I was confused, maybe even a little scared that I had done something wrong. ‘Yes,‘ I said nervously. She introduced herself as a member of the PR team for the Boston Bruins, welcomed us to the game and offered us some awesome Bruins Winter Classic Hats. To say nice touch would be an understatement. The Bruins don’t mess around! My kids felt like celebrities as they hurriedly donned their new hats, thanking me for this great night.
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Next, a raffle drawing, which we had entered earlier that night. The prize? An autographed puck and a $50 gift card for Bruins merchandise! Guess whose name was called? Yup, mine. ‘OMG! What is going on?,’ I thought. This is by far the most amazing, perfect, and magical night. ‘I don’t have nights like these,’ I thought. Nights when all 3 kids are all happy at the same time, and they have their divorced parents together (not fighting). Nights when every single thing is going our way and unexpected great things keep falling in our laps. Nights when we are simply in the moment, and each one of us at our absolute best, breathing in dreams like air. The kids looked at me with a light in their eyes I have never seen before. They were having the time of their lives and they were so grateful.
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When the game ended and the players skated back to their locker rooms, we took it all in, wanting to extend the night as long as possible. I looked around, took a deep breath and breathed a sigh of gratitude as I observed everything around me: the lights, music, zamboni, happy fans, my kids, and even my ex-husband. I didn’t want to leave. Santa is here, I thought. This IS the magic of Christmas. Everything came together in a way that superseded any expectations we had. My son and his sisters experienced the exact magic that I had hesitantly told him about on December 25th. And for the first time, I truly believed the words that had stumbled out of my mouth that day.”
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“I was 35 years old, single, at the height of my career making six figures, living in a gorgeous apartment in downtown Memphis, and projecting nothing but success outwardly. At that point, I had been drinking daily for nearly two years and with a couple of failed attempts of going a day without a drink, I accepted my fate – I would just be an alcoholic, but as long as I was successful and everything appeared ok, then it would be fine! I mean, there are lots of people in the world that drink daily or even in excess and manage perfectly fine lives, right?!?
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Once my inner most being accepted the fact that I was in fact an alcoholic, then what was left of my spirit and soul began to cave in. Crumble. It’s like I had finally given myself full permission to hate myself the way I always knew I had. It was an excuse to treat myself like the worthless piece of garbage I had always thought I was. I grew up in a suburb of Memphis with my parents and two other loving siblings, went to great schools, was president of my class through high school, delivered a speech to thousands at my high school graduation commencement, was voted “most involved,” and outwardly had it all together. But for as long as I can remember, I never FELT a part of, like truly felt it deep in my soul, felt like I belonged.
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My head knew I was a part of it, but my heart always thought it was a lie, always felt that I didn’t deserve the good people and things in my life. I always felt like I was living someone else’s life and one day everyone would figure out what a weak, disgusting person I was and leave – they’d realize I was a sham, a shell of the person I pretended to be.
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But by the time I was 35, no one else had realized it! Sure, I had done a few stupid things involving alcohol – I got arrested my senior year in high school for public intoxication and spent the night in jail after I spent hours in the lockdown portion of a public hospital with all the other criminals being treated for illness. I woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed covered in my own vomit, dirt and mud caked in my ears and under my perfectly manicured acrylic nails (from passing out in the mud), having no idea where I was, how I got there, or what was next.
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Thank God it was a hospital where law enforcement had arrested me and not in some stranger’s basement. But those instances were few and far between. I successfully completed college at the University of Memphis and began a successful career in the Memphis area. I was the life of the party – or so I thought.
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