I realize that I’m the type of person who dots their i’s and crosses their t’s ad nauseam, and I thus never fail to stand amazed when I hear about the uncovering of major lies, such as those by Herman Rosenblat, who fabricated part of his Holocaust survival story in a memoir that was endorsed by Oprah, and also inspired a children’s book.

I assume that these grand-scale lies are at least partly attributable to the Hollywood-like desire to create a better, more marketable story, but as a former psychologist, I also wonder whether this fabrication isn’t so surprising in the context of major tragedy and post-traumatic stress. At some level, people often want to (and do, in the regaling…) improve the circumstances around their personal history (who you first slept with, how the engagement really happened, whether you really were the hero in a given scenario, etc.). Perhaps Rosenblat’s fabrication is an example of this on a grander scale, reflective of his fervent desire and need for a prettier, more romantic meeting amidst a period of hell.

I’m not excusing the falsification (maybe it does just boil down to a calculated, fame-grubbing ploy), but I’m sympathetic to the potential psychological underpinnings.

Image credit + story lead: Associated Press via Yahoo News

I’ve lost my holiday mojo.

I want to recover it.

I’m sad that, despite making a genuine effort to keep Christmas low stress (I recently shared 10 holiday survival tips over at Boston Mamas and we are in fact doing all of those things), I’m feeling very alone on this Christmas Eve morning.

I actually was doing fine until early this morning. Jon and I haven’t been in the best shape the last month – both battling nagging colds – but I held my own last night, when Jon and Laurel were both edgy, and then as Jon and I later groused over holiday plans and social commitments (he gets squirrelly about too much planning). Then this morning he snapped at me about something minor and muttered, “I just want this holiday over with.” At that moment, I felt my mojo slip away.

It was a minor comment, but it touched a nerve. Historically, Christmas has been challenging for me. My family always longed for holiday normalcy because honestly, we had some really terrifying ones, complete with hurled objects (including a Christmas tree) and my poor mother frantically evacuating us 7 kids in the station wagon, speeding off, and trying to create some sense of festivity while we huddled together trying to keep warm in decidedly non-festive locales. To this day I break into a cold sweat around fake Christmas trees (the one year we didn’t buy a real one was the year my dad threw it across the living room) and whenever a sub shop guy asks if I want hots on my sub (on one Christmas evacuation we picked up subs for dinner; when I complained about the hots, my brother told me to eat it or I’d have to go back and face dad).

I’m grateful that my dad - by virtue of age and cutting off the sauce – eventually mellowed out and became someone I truly loved and enjoyed spending time with. But these memories still live in my cells and, admittedly, make me react strongly to minor instances of discord (such as what transpired this morning with Jon).

I hope that I can shake this off because to me, psychologically negative holiday mojo is as bad as a fake, flying Christmas tree.

‘Tis the season for holiday classics and the New York Times’ recent commentary about It’s A Wonderful Life set off a reflexive reaction for me. My family and I used to routinely watch It’s A Wonderful Life and The Sound of Music at Christmas, with what I have grown to realize was an intense sense of longing.

It’s not rocket science. We humans are drawn to stories that reflect us. In It’s A Wonderful Life George Bailey struggles as the underdog and is bound by family obligation (my father, and now my oldest brother, who also is named George), his beautiful wife strives to create a happy, perfect home (my mother), and the kids cower in terror when George flips out under pressure (me and my siblings). And in The Sound of Music, there are 5 girls and 2 boys (just like my family), a strict father who eventually softens (my father), and a governess who swoops in and saves them all with practicality and music (my mother).

My father was a tough guy - not one to say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I love you’ like the father figures in Life and Music. And while I felt very resolved about his death three years ago (thanks to therapy and adjusting my expectations about him) I think there’s still a lot of longing for many of my siblings. If only life wrapped up so tidily and happily as it does in the movies.

Image credit: IMDB