The Winter Blues And Carly Simon
Without Prejudice
I convince myself every year, year after year, that this Winter I won't get it.
The Black Dog, as Churchill called it.
The Winter Blues, S.A.D. ( an apt title ) Winter Depression.
I take my anti D's or anti crazy pills as my kids call them. They do make a difference but I am never sure how much.
My Mother was a clinical depressive. No anti D's in those days otherwise she would still be alive.
It begins insidiously, not overnight. As the days shorten and nights are long it creeps into my bed, this particular black dog and scares me witless.
I know of old, what is to come.
Tiredness. Ennui. Craving carbs. Insomnia, aches and pains.
From April it starts and ends when the days lengthen. A long tunnel of grey.
I obsess about getting past the shortest day in June, convinced that within a month things will change.
They don't.
August begins the healing, the sun emerging at last sporadically. A weak and not warm sun, but the sun, just the same.
I know a " break through" will come. Last year it was two, this year but one.
A " break through " being a break down into tears and sadness, hating myself, my life and others with equal equanimity. Nothing I do is right, nothing I say is right and the only answer is to just keep going, putting one foot in front of the other.
I have found strict routine helps. Stops negative feelings overwhelming me. I find the routine helps me through the day as my brain is a soggy mess but there is no need for my house to be.or my life. I make lists of things to achieve for the day, just one day at a time, like an addict. I am in twelve steps of recovery from The Black Dog.
I don't want to do much but sleep and can sleep on and off all day. A somnambulist with a lot to do.
Reading novels helps, strict routine helps and telling myself that the depression will eventually lift, helps.
It helps with my creativity. An upbeat Sunny natured person would be boring to read I decide. A writer needs the Sturm and Drang of life to remain interesting. If you have ever spent time with an endlessly upbeat person you will catch my drift. After a while you just want to murder them.
We need the darkness to appreciate the light. We need the rest. We need cold drab winter iron grey days lying on the couch with a great book, icy rain beating at the windows making them rattle.
I often think I should be allowed to hibernate for three months, like a bear with a sore head and a
belly full of food. But life doesn't happen that way. There are kids to get to School and work, washing to be done, dishes, floors, cooking all to be done. Otherwise life really goes off the rails.
And there is nothing worse than being a depressed person living in a mix of detritus and fifth. So I clean obsessively. It gets me moving, thinking, dreaming, observing and even though I feel like flinging myself on to the floor and never getting up again. I resist.
Monday is washing day.
Tuesday, mending.
Wednesday is cooking day.
Thursday the garden needs attention.
Friday is " Pants Off Friday "
Saturday is cleaning day and Sunday is kid free and worship day. The blessed Sabbath.
If I stick to this routine things are better. Some days it's like wading through mud. But I bargain with myself. If I arise early and get every thing done the afternoons are mine to do what I like with. I can do absolutely nothing if I so desire.
Read other people's work, nap, play Candy Crush. It's strictly my time.
It's amazing how much harder you can work if you set yourself a time limit and a reward at the end of it.
As I write this Carly Simon comes on the radio. She believes in Love, so do I. I envied her once upon a time for being married to Sweet Baby James Taylor . Guess it didn't work out. She also went out with Warren Beatty. And we know that He's So Vain. But not anymore. Age comes to all of us. Age, the great leveller.
I convince myself every year, year after year, that this Winter I won't get it.
The Black Dog, as Churchill called it.
The Winter Blues, S.A.D. ( an apt title ) Winter Depression.
I take my anti D's or anti crazy pills as my kids call them. They do make a difference but I am never sure how much.
My Mother was a clinical depressive. No anti D's in those days otherwise she would still be alive.
It begins insidiously, not overnight. As the days shorten and nights are long it creeps into my bed, this particular black dog and scares me witless.
I know of old, what is to come.
Tiredness. Ennui. Craving carbs. Insomnia, aches and pains.
From April it starts and ends when the days lengthen. A long tunnel of grey.
I obsess about getting past the shortest day in June, convinced that within a month things will change.
They don't.
August begins the healing, the sun emerging at last sporadically. A weak and not warm sun, but the sun, just the same.
I know a " break through" will come. Last year it was two, this year but one.
A " break through " being a break down into tears and sadness, hating myself, my life and others with equal equanimity. Nothing I do is right, nothing I say is right and the only answer is to just keep going, putting one foot in front of the other.
I have found strict routine helps. Stops negative feelings overwhelming me. I find the routine helps me through the day as my brain is a soggy mess but there is no need for my house to be.or my life. I make lists of things to achieve for the day, just one day at a time, like an addict. I am in twelve steps of recovery from The Black Dog.
I don't want to do much but sleep and can sleep on and off all day. A somnambulist with a lot to do.
Reading novels helps, strict routine helps and telling myself that the depression will eventually lift, helps.
It helps with my creativity. An upbeat Sunny natured person would be boring to read I decide. A writer needs the Sturm and Drang of life to remain interesting. If you have ever spent time with an endlessly upbeat person you will catch my drift. After a while you just want to murder them.
We need the darkness to appreciate the light. We need the rest. We need cold drab winter iron grey days lying on the couch with a great book, icy rain beating at the windows making them rattle.
I often think I should be allowed to hibernate for three months, like a bear with a sore head and a
belly full of food. But life doesn't happen that way. There are kids to get to School and work, washing to be done, dishes, floors, cooking all to be done. Otherwise life really goes off the rails.
And there is nothing worse than being a depressed person living in a mix of detritus and fifth. So I clean obsessively. It gets me moving, thinking, dreaming, observing and even though I feel like flinging myself on to the floor and never getting up again. I resist.
Monday is washing day.
Tuesday, mending.
Wednesday is cooking day.
Thursday the garden needs attention.
Friday is " Pants Off Friday "
Saturday is cleaning day and Sunday is kid free and worship day. The blessed Sabbath.
If I stick to this routine things are better. Some days it's like wading through mud. But I bargain with myself. If I arise early and get every thing done the afternoons are mine to do what I like with. I can do absolutely nothing if I so desire.
Read other people's work, nap, play Candy Crush. It's strictly my time.
It's amazing how much harder you can work if you set yourself a time limit and a reward at the end of it.
As I write this Carly Simon comes on the radio. She believes in Love, so do I. I envied her once upon a time for being married to Sweet Baby James Taylor . Guess it didn't work out. She also went out with Warren Beatty. And we know that He's So Vain. But not anymore. Age comes to all of us. Age, the great leveller.
