Christmas Eve Eve Or: the Things I Can't Remember

Telling this story is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Growing up in a family wracked by suicide, substance abuse, self-harm, and trauma, I clung tightly- desperately- to the need to keep it all a secret. What would people say if they knew about my father’s alcoholism and drug abuse (as if they didn’t already)? What would people say if they knew I hit myself? Would speaking aloud about the past somehow ensure my greatest fear—that my dad would take his own life the way his brothers and father had before him? But as I grew older, I realized this wasn’t just something I would have to reckon with. Ultimately, this was a story I would have to tell.

Christmas Eve Eve Or: the Things I Can’t Remember follows a woman (played by me) who comes home for the holidays to confront her father, a low-functioning alcoholic reeling from the recent suicide of his younger brother. The story includes details and situations from my own life, but I chose to use a fictional frame to deliberately explore themes and ideas that have fixated me personally— how does trauma get passed down from generation to generation? How does it manifest differently in different people? How can can we engage with our family in the present tense while dealing with so much pain from the past? We all have our own ways of coping with pain, but sometimes these overlap— can that bring us closer? Are our shared coping mechanisms sometimes our only way of understanding one another?

I was also eager to use humor in the piece—not just as a tonal device, but as a way of illuminating how laughter and trauma can overlap and draw each other out (I’ve long admired this awareness in filmmakers like Kenneth Lonergan, Greta Gerwig, and Mike Mills, among many others). And I used a “home for the holidays” genre frame to evoke a season filled with family gatherings and obligations, memories and explosive feelings— as well as the weirdly strident demand that we be outwardly happy. In the end, the film’s protagonist isn’t able to save her father or fix her father (or get him healthy or sober), but she is able to be with her father, and to share a small, quiet, human moment with him that I hope will resonate with people who take the time to watch our movie.

Since my creative partner (who’s also my husband and life partner) and I began making the project, we’ve heard from a number of people about their own experiences with family trauma, self-hitting, and self-harm. The film has enabled a context for serious, candid conversation, an opportunity for people to bring their own stories and secrets to light, and a deepening of engagement and understanding between us and our acquaintances, colleagues, and even close friends. This has been a moving and powerful experience for me, and, in many ways, a vindication of why I set out to make this movie—and why I will continue to make more.

— Suzanne Lenz