Coming On Christmas

As I laid atop my bare mattress this morning in my underwear, listening to Sarah McLachlan and weeping into some cold pizza, I realized something truly profound: I fucking hate the holidays.

I am impressed with how long it's taken me to realize this. I am one of the most obsessively self-reflective people I know, and one would think I'd have some foggy idea that winter turns me into a fat, labile stoner with bad hair and a penchant for not getting dressed. But really, I had no earthly clue until I spilled hot chocolate all over my sheets this morning like a spaz and then cried about it.

I knew, of course, of my various diagnoses throughout the years: Seasonal Affective Disorder (which, frankly, I believe everyone has a little bit of), depression, etc, etc. Even the SAD didn't tip me off, though. I was just vaguely aware that I sucked the most when the sky was cloudy, and, as such, hibernated until the sun came out.

Interestingly, for me, it's not really the holidays that do it. Maybe the stress associated with them makes things a bit worse, but as a tried-and-true agnostic with no family members even remotely close to my age, I'm altogether indifferent towards Christmas. I like giving presents when I'm not broke. (Which, evidently, is always, so that might lead one to the conclusion that I do not, in fact, enjoy the gift giving.) It's the winter. It's the bare trees and bleak sky and everlasting gray snow that turns the whole world into disgusting mud puddles that last until mid-May.

And I think it's the loneliness. One of the worst parts of depression, for me, has always been the loneliness, the complete inability of other people to do anything except hold your hand. I spent most winter nights in Amherst reaching out desperately, trying to find someone who would take care of me. I was constantly getting dumped in December or January by friends and boyfriends (and grad schools and jobs) alike, no doubt because I turned into a giant fucking bummer.

It was never that they wouldn't take care of me. It was that they couldn't. When you're in a hole, you're in a hole. Ultimately, you're the one who has to get yourself out. Sometimes, that means first sitting in the bottom of the hole in your underpants with a pan of brownies and Netflix for far longer than you'd like.

This year, the winter is particularly lonely. It's so dry here, and gray, and at night I'm cuddled with a humidifier and takeout (and JUST takeout. No complimentary pan of brownies to follow up—damned if I'm going to gain back those sweet fifteen pounds I lost attempting rond'u'jambes), trying to be okay. I think a lot about how I'm headed back to the East Coast for a few weeks, and how worried I am about the snow. I think about one of my closest friends, and meeting her new baby, and how content she seems. I think about the future I've given up on and try, without success, to find a path to a different one. I think about the lives we've lost this year, and how frightened I am to lose any more. I think about who I trust. I think about how selfish I feel, how there are so many people who hate this time of year for so many better reasons than mine. I think about running away, and I think about starting over.

Mostly, though, I have this odd, disconnected feeling that somewhere outside the dark haze of my little hole is grass, and sun, and warmth. And I find some solace—not enough, but some—in knowing that the seemingly unreachable warmth comes ever closer.