Years ago, I posted this story more as therapy for myself than anything else. I suffer from a nagging case of Santa PTSB that recurs every December. I want it known that I was fighting terrorism as a six-year-old long before it became fashionable. Reposting this story helps me with my Santa issues like nothing else can. That big fat and jolly SOB is known in our house as Osama Bin Santa and the only difference between him and other terrorists is that Santa loves victimizing young children. With that in mind here’s my scary and terrifying Christmas story straight from 1955.
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As a young child my parents made every attempt to make Christmas memorable for my sister and me. My sister was very young and I was just turning 6 years old. I still firmly believed all the stories about Santa’s elves and all the other good stuff. In the back of my young mind there was a seed of skepticism secretly growing. I was beginning to have serious doubts about Santa and my parents as well. A lot of what I was being told by my trusted family members wasn’t what I was hearing on the street (school yard). My friends had almost convinced me that the whole Santa thing was just BS and that the adults were actually the real gift givers. I think it was at that early age that my trust issues with authority figures first began.
My parents began to suspect I was wavering, and their propaganda was now falling on deaf ears. In a conspiracy involving my mother, her sister, my grandparents, and my dad it was decided that drastic action was immediately necessary to convince me that Santa was the real deal. I’d been acting out a lot and being a little disrespectful to my elders, so it was time for Santa to step in and straighten me out once and for all.
It was the week before Christmas and we were visiting my grandparents. I was being a huge pain in the ass as usual like a lot of six-year-olds can be at that time of the year. It was just after dark and I was walking through the house down a narrow hallway towards the kitchen. It was dark outside and as I passed the window I glanced over and almost had a six-year-old heart attack. There was Santa looking back at me and smiling a frightening smile. My blood turned cold and I got the hell out of there screaming all the way upstairs to hide under the bed. My parents let me know in no uncertain terms that Santa was out looking for those children who were being good and keeping an eye on those that weren’t. I was on the latter list, of course.
For the next few days, I was a complete angel but after dark I was still nervous about looking out the windows. Santa the terrorist had accomplished his mission. I saw him again on two or three other occasions over the next two Christmases, once at our house, and again in the coal cellar at my grandparents’ home. Unfortunately, I’d already consulted with my knowledgeable friends at the playground, and I was officially a nonbeliever by then. I went along with the charade for as long as possible since my parents were the ones giving me the gifts. They finally had a meeting and decided I was just playing them for extra toys and my game was over.
Skip ahead 25 years as I was digging through an old trunk in my aunt’s bedroom. I discovered where Santa had been hiding for all those many years. His retirement consisted of being tucked under a pile of sheets and pillowcases in that old trunk. My aunt laughed until she cried when I confronted her with the Santa costume. We relived a very special and scary Christmas memory and thoroughly enjoyed the special moment.
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What I never told her, or my parents was the lingering collateral damage from their well-meaning actions. To this day during the Christmas season, I’m careful in dark rooms and hallways and try never to look out the windows, NEVER! In the malls and stores where Santa is holding court, I stay the hell away. That guy still scares the bejesus out of me. Terrorism is no joke.
HO! HO! HO!
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