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I remember the day I stopped believing in Santa. I figured it out pretty late; I find it hard to believe I was even conscious before I was sixteen. I started having doubts about his existence when I was eight years old. I remember that on that Christmas night, I was building Legos with my brother, who was two years older than me. I remember telling him I was going to stay up all night—like every kid has—and catch Santa with his stash of goodies. All he said was, “Sure.” Remembering it now, I can see why I hate the word “sure.” This word sounds like it doesn’t care enough to tell you anything—it’s indecisive. It sounded like my brother didn’t care back then, but now I think he didn’t have the heart to expose Santa’s lies. I passed out that night at 9 PM. It turns out that staying up past your bedtime is an unwinnable battle when you’re eight.
It was when I was ten that I stopped believing in Santa. That Christmas, my family and I had gone up to New Hampshire to celebrate at our uncle’s house. It was a large, spacious house. I remember seeing that beautiful Christmas tree centered in their living room. I remember watching lights all over the tree that flickered like delicate candles, seeing the fruit-like golden orbs sprouting from the branches, and smelling the earthy sap of the fir tree. That was Christmas. I hid behind the couch that night, waiting to see my uncle holding those gifts. But some part of me hoped he would never come. An hour after everyone was asleep, I heard the stairs creak, and I felt a stab in my heart with every step. The next thing I knew, I saw my mom and uncle stuffing our stockings with candy canes and hiding gifts under the tree.
That Christmas morning, I opened my gift. It was the spy-gear night-vision goggles I had asked Santa for. But I didn’t think about the gift in my hands. All I could think about was that Santa had never come.
One December day, when I was ten, the snow had piled up almost as tall as my home’s second-floor window. I remember traversing through the snow in our backyard and imagining I was a lost soldier on the planet Hoth, close to succumbing to my wounds in the snowstorm. I remember lying on the snow just before dying and staring at the white-speckled sky as the snowflakes kissed my eyelashes. Just being there, in the moment.
I’m seventeen now and can’t remember the last time it snowed that heavily. I like to call the period when I was between ten and fifteen years old ‘The Dark Ages’ because if you asked, I couldn’t tell you what happened during those five years. But I can tell you that there was less snow each year.
This December, I went ornament shopping with my mom. We walked through the Christmas section of Target, searching for worthy decorations like we always used to. But in those aisles, everything seemed small, even dull. The ornaments were inferior to those I had seen when I was ten. Yet my mom says they’re the same ones. When I explored the next aisle, I saw the nutcrackers on the shelves. When I was younger, I used to be scared of their teeth, scared that those wooden dolls would come alive and jump off those shelves to bite me. But now they look like they need to take better care of their gums.
Over the past six years, Christmas has become just another day. Sure, I celebrate Christmas, but it’s nothing like before. I can tell my family has drifted away from it as well. For some time, my brother stayed in his room during Christmas Eve. My younger sister doesn’t seem to be overflowing with joy as a kid should be on Christmas. My dad is busy outside. My mom tries. For this Christmas, my mom bought stockings, as always. The whole family used to gather around the tree to decorate it. But this year, it was just her and I.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. It was three A.M., and eight-year-old me would have been wiped out way before then. Something in the living room called my soul that night, called to a void within me. It was pitch-black in the living room; the Christmas lights were turned off, but I could see the mirage of the Christmas tree hiding in the corner. When I plugged it in, all I could see were the dim LED lights flashing in a quick sequence, the muted yellow ornaments that didn’t glow but hid the light, and the empty gaps within the plastic tree. In search of feeling something, I found nothing. All I could do was criticize every lost detail and hold onto every Christmas, every memory, but I couldn’t deny the truth standing right in front of me: I’m not a kid anymore.
I hate you, Santa, for showing me an infinite castle of dreams. I hate you for disappearing and leaving me with nothing but memories. I wish—no, I want you to come back and let me be a kid again. But, Santa, you exist for a reason—to give joy to the mundane, a way for parents to invent a playground for their kid’s blooming imagination. One day, when I’m older and wiser, I’ll thank you for making Christmas magical, but until then, I’ll hate you for that day you walked away.