My Anti-Santaism: The beginning

This is the second post in my Anti-Santaism series. Just as a reminder, a new post will be added to the series every Friday between now and Christmas. Last week I introduced the series, you can read that post here. This week, I wanted to take some time to tell you about when it all started.



My Anti-Santaism began when I was 14. You see, I was one of those kids that believed in Santa with every fiber of their being. When all of the other children's hope in him faded away, I held on. After all, the movies all said that he was real, even if parents and older kids didn't believe. I thought that it was special that I could still believe when others lost their faith. I thought Santa would be pleased by my faith in him and maybe, just maybe, I would get to meet him. He might even take me to the North Pole in his sleigh. I was sure I would be rewarded for my faith in him.

The harsh reality? Santa isn't real.

When did I find this out? Just before Christmas one year. I was shopping with my sister and one of her friend, and on the way out of the store and back to the car the topic of Santa came up. I proudly announced that Santa was most defiantly real, even if they didn't believe in him. They responded by laughing at me and saying they couldn't believe I was so stupid and childish to still believe in that. But it didn't stop there. They continued poking fun at me for quite some time, and I spent the ride home in the back of the car trying to hide my tears. My mom wouldn't have lied to me, would she? Surly all this time it wasn't her like they were saying. Just the year before I had received a letter from Santa in my stocking, that wasn't from my mom!

That was the day I decided. That was the day I made the choice that I would NEVER lie to my children. I knew that no loving parent could ever be the cause of the treatment that I received that day. Especially not just for their own enjoyment. I remember wondering what kind of a mom could lie to her kids? It was just so inconceivable to me. I still loved my mom (and my sister), but I was wounded.

I was the brunt of jokes that entire Christmas season. My sister told everyone we met that I still believed in Santa, and they would join in with her to laugh at me. I would try to deny it, even though I wasn’t sure what to think anymore, but they didn’t believe me or simply didn’t care. It is probably one of the most painful childhood memories that I have; more painful than being made fun of for having only one eye, and even more painful than being sexually abused by my stepfather.

That was the beginning of my Anti-Santaism. For those of you who were expecting something that was related to my faith in Christ, I have to tell you that it started out having nothing to do with religion. Back then I knew of Christ, but I didn’t know Him. I was raised in church, and I'm sure I must have known that Christmas was about the birth of Christ? But Christ wasn't important to me. He loved everyone, God was good and that was the extent of it. Santa, now he was the reason for the season. Every image of Christmas was about him. Every Christmas card held his photo, and on Christmas eve we watched him on the news. And it was all a lie. My Anti-Santaism came from the hurt that I felt that day. The hurt that I knew I could NEVER wish on any other child, especially not my own.

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