It's always the shortest days of the year which seem the longest. When the sunlight packs up and leaves at four in the afternoon, I have to stop and remind myself that I am living in California and not in an Ingmar Bergman film. It confuses me. It makes me wonder where on earth the day went.
By the time Winter arrives, my temper is as short as the day is long and my mood is as dark as the night.
The fountain of creativity that seems to flow so freely in the Springtime freezes under a layer of ice so thick over The Holidays that it could bear the weight of Santa Claus himself, should he find the time to skate upon it. In November I think to myself, "I can't write, I can't cook. I can't do anything. It's all over." In January, I bubble and froth at the idea of writing again.
Every year it's the same thing. I could probably scribble the date in red ink on my calendar if I paid closer attention to the warning signs: insomnia, low energy, high fatalism, the desire to hide from the world until after St. Valentine's Day. February might be earmarked for Black History Month, but I always set aside November and December for Seasonal Depression Time. It's just what I do.
Or rather what I used to do. This is the first time that I've realized, "Oh, wait. This is a thing that happens. And it's a thing that happens not just to me, but to other people I know." I never looked at the pattern, never understood the cycle. In previous years, I've always sunk under its weight, but now that I know it's just "a thing that happens," I can make the best of it, rather than letting it get the best of me.