I have had the same recurring nightmare for most of my adult life (to be clear, at ALL times of the year).
The setting is always the same: It is Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. The house is full. The tree is sparkling. Someone has committed to a playlist that suggests we are all having a whimsical, cinematic experience.
And then my brain drops the bomb.
I have not bought a single present.
Not one. No gift cards. No stockings. No “this was backordered but it’s coming!” lie queued up in the chamber. Just me, standing there empty-handed, heart racing, trying to figure out if I can fake my own disappearance or at least blame the mail.
Time stops. Stores are closed. I am sweating in a festive sweater that was clearly chosen for me by an enemy.
Oh, brain. You are cute. At this point, my subconscious has basically grabbed me by the shoulders and is screaming in my face, “OH, SO YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD JUST WING IT??”
What’s especially rude is that in real life, I have never been much of a “wing it” person. I am not careless. I am a human filing cabinet. I hold a library of details in my head that no one assigned me, from the obscure island you mentioned one time that you wanted to vacation to to the name of your childhood best friend.
I care. Deeply. Intensely. To a degree that is probably medically concerning.
And yet my brain has decided this is the scenario we must revisit forever.
This year (in real life), I started my Christmas shopping ten days before the big day. Which, to be clear, is not the nightmare, BUT it was close enough that my nervous system perked up like, “Oh good, we’re doing the thing! Is it time to panic? I’ll go get the adrenaline.”
And that’s when I realized something important.
This dream is not about presents. It is a personality reel designed exclusively for people who feel emotionally responsible for the happiness of everyone in a 50-mile radius.
This is the nightmare of the “Over-Functioner.” It’s for the people who believe effort equals love, and who would rather set themselves on fire than have someone think they didn’t try. In the dream, I’m not actually worried about the lack of gifts; I’m worried about being exposed. I’m terrified someone is going to point at me and say, “Aha! So you don’t actually have it all together. You’re just three raccoons in a trench coat trying to pass as a Competent Adult.”
Which feels dramatic… Because it is.
But as I stood in the middle of store yesterday, clutching a candle and a soft throw blanket like they hold the power to mend any unsteady relationship, I decided I’m done being bullied by my own subconscious.
If my brain wants to keep hosting this annual horror movie, fine. But I’m changing the script. From now on, when Dream-Me realizes there are no gifts, I’m not going to panic. I’m going to look my family in the eye and say, “The gift is my presence. And also, I’ve decided we’re a ‘No-Gift Family’ now. It’s a minimalist movement. You’re welcome for the lack of clutter.”
Then, I’ll wake up, check the delivery dates on my Amazon “Orders” page for the fourth time, and go back to sleep.
Because, let’s be honest: if the worst thing I ever do is forget a physical object that will eventually end up in a landfill or a donation bin, I’m actually doing okay. The real gift I give my loved ones isn’t the perfectly curated gift; it might be the fact that I’m the one who remembers the deadline of that really important school thing or the person who wants to sit with you and hear all about your terrible day. So this year, if the nightmare comes back, I’m just going to hand Dream-Me a glass of eggnog and tell her to relax. The raccoons in the trench coat have everything under control.
Comments +