Eight years ago, after a disastrous festive gathering, my mother decided we needed professional help. That is how a new tradition began: annual pre-Christmas family therapy sessions in a psychoanalyst's office in central London.
The therapy started after a particularly bad Christmas where I threw a potato and my mother brandished a carving knife, saying she wanted to run me through with it. We did not eat dinner that year; my mother wandered the streets alone while the rest of us watched Elf.
The goal was to air grievances in advance to avoid future unhappiness. In practice, we spend an hour assigning Christmas roles and delivering awful truths about each other. My mother says I want to control everything; I say she cannot cope.
We all want a happy Christmas, but we also want to win at therapy by gaining the therapist's approval. Initially, we pretended to be saner than we were. Recently, we have learned to gain sympathy by exaggerating our struggles, discussing antidepressants and anxiety. Sometimes the therapist reminds us that our mother is the one who is not always mentally well.
For 11 months of the year, we get along well. I lived with my parents until age 29 by choice. We speak often and post funny things on WhatsApp. But December brings pressure to craft a perfect family portrait, sanding off each other's hard edges.
Recently, my mother seems less invested in organising therapy. My sister and I, now in our early 30s, have become more controlling of the family, while our parents appear increasingly detached.
