Honestly, it took Simone asking, “Dad, why are you so angry?” for me to realize just how out of sorts and not myself I’ve been the last several weeks — my seasonal doldrums had taken on a surly, frustrated shade, and I’d ignored the signs, attributing my endless internal monologues to the stress of a new calendar year.
We were driving in traffic on a wintry Thursday afternoon, coin-sized flakes of snow lazily blanketing the windshield. We weren’t in any particular hurry, but I was still grousing about the shitty Denver drivers — the car in front of us in the left turn lane not pulling into the intersection, the slow and steady station wagon going 10 miles under the speed limit, the dude in the Dodge Ram driving so close to my back bumper I could almost smell his breath.
I was cursing out loud, providing vitriolic driving instructions to the vehicles around us, and Simone cut through my fevered haze of frustration with her question.
Yeah, why was I so angry?
It wasn’t the easiest of days, to be sure — I’d gone to bed the night before thinking about my father, but it wasn’t until mid-morning that day, when I’d arrived late and out of breath to a conference and was chatting with another attendee, that I remembered it was the fourth anniversary of Dad’s passing. I stopped mid-sentence, gathered myself together, and finished my thought. Then I sat there listening, but not really, because all I could think was, four years? Four. Years?
But I had to power through the day, be productive, get my stuff done and care for Simone, shuttle her to an appointment, then brave a snowy rush hour home so I could cook dinner for the two of us. And that’s what I did, not really giving myself time to think and be sad until we were nestled on the couch in front of the fireplace, streaming “Scrubs,” with its graceful dance between slapstick and sentiment.
Just like in years past, the first weeks of February were especially difficult. And just like in years past, the realization snuck up on me before I perceived I was being such an ass to people. This time of year is historically tough, even without the added layer of anniversary grief. You’d think, by now, I’d be better prepared for it. Looking back, I haven’t written a romantic February post in years.
My seasonal doldrums aren’t consistent from year to year. Sometimes they come in thick and dark, a deep haze of sadness, where I function by rote, just keeping the wheels turning until the weather and the sunlight bring hope back. Other years, I’m just sort of blue for a couple months, more inclined to lay on the couch and watch TV from under a blanket than to go out and be social. And sometimes the deep winter months pass easily, with a few good #snowpantsTuesdays and fireplace weekends, lots of cocktails and meals with friends, mini-adventures with the girl.
But this year? I’ve been oscillating between deep anger and wan sorrow for weeks. The causes are obvious in retrospect — the constant countdown of Simone moving away to college; the return to the time of year when I woke up every morning for weeks thinking I’d be getting a call that my father had died; the feeling that, after 10 years in business, I was holding my company together with scotch tape and rubber-bands; the short, cold, lonely days where my malaise fed on itself while I did my best to maintain an optimistic facade.
Any one of those things would be a challenge. But all of them together, piled on top of each other day after day? It’s been a heavy weight. I thought I was carrying it well enough, without burdening the people around me with my heartache, but I’ve learned in the past couple of weeks that my inchoate despondency has manifested itself in critical outbursts, angry emails, and general withdrawal from (or avoidance of) important conversations.
I’ve been like a grenade with the pin pulled, always on the verge of an explosion.
Thank goodness for the kindness and generosity of my pals, always there to wrench me out of my self-centered wallowing, forcing me up the mountain or into the bar, distracting me and supporting me. They call me out (kindly) when I’m not at my best but also don’t let me beat myself up overly much.
They’re maybe the least-likely people on the planet to take my behavior and moodiness at face value, giving me leeway to be present or not as I need to, happy to keep the lighthearted banter going even as I sip at my boulevardier and withdraw into myself for a little bit. They know when to drag me to the next spot and when to let me drift home earlier than usual.
And we’re all so wrapped up in our own transitions and shenanigans, any one of us can carry the conversational slack when we need to.
Not sure how I’d cope without them.
And Simone, too, has been especially gentle, telling me often how much she appreciates me, taking responsibility for herself, and generally being the young adult she’s growing into. She turns 18 in March, and seems more and more grounded and together week after week.
I’m generally a happy person, so moments of pure joy, laughter, and love still float over the steady undercurrent of worry and depression, tugging me back into the moment (where all the goodness is) just about every day.
And those days are, finally, growing incrementally longer, the sun shining a little less slantwise. We’ve had some brutally cold ones lately, but it’s bracing to bundle up and brave them for a walk to a hot bite or a cozy cocktail. Our rare below-freezing Colorado evenings punctuate the season like a splash from a chilly stream, invigorating and revitalizing even as they make me look to the temperate summer nights that still seem far away. And they give me the excuse I need to laze away my stress in front of the fireplace, streaming series and grazing from the fridge.
Work is picking up, I seem to have survived another February, the ski resorts are finally sporting decent snow, and a sense of possibility is occasionally finding its way into my pensive first moments each morning. I’ve been given several well-deserved kicks in the ass for my curt communications, and I’m taking them to heart.
Anybody who battles the blues on a regular basis knows at some level that the feelings of hopelessness and despondency are temporary — blue skies will come, because they always do. If you’re reading this and feel like I do, I hope you can gain some small measure of optimism from my survival story. We’ll get through this.
I may have been facing March acting like an angry lion, but now that I’m awake, I’m hoping to slip into it with more of a purr.
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