A few days before Christmas last year, I sat in my therapists office, sipping in the lavender flavored air and her warm sage advice. I was in a good place. My job wasn’t killing me too much, I hadn’t had a hangover in what seemed an eternity, I was in yoga teacher training and continually becoming a more dedicated and regular practitioner, I knew what self love meant (really!), and my apartment was clean (this is a really big benchmark for adulthood for me). I actually remember sitting there across from her feeling…together.We were talking about my upcoming trip home for the holidays to my mother’s house. I told her that while in the past these holiday gatherings had tended to undo me in the worst possible way, I was actually looking forward to this time home and this big holiday affair. I was severely optimistic because this time, I was a grown up. A spiritually progressed grown-up by Oprah standards.This year would be different because I was different.So three days later as I sat in my childhood home living room in a ball on the floor sobbing uncontrollable hate tears, a string of “fuck-you assholes” hanging thick in the air somewhere between my mother and sister and I as they continued on unaffected in their game of cribbage, their normal “there she goes” giggling eye roll routine only stoking the hate fire further- I couldn’t help but wonder.What. The. Fuck. Happened.